


Nothing Left to Give

by Southern_Dryheat



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Anger, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Codependency, Control Issues, Dark, Depressing, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gritty, Insecurity, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Panic Attacks, Past Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ryan Ross Being an Asshole, Sexual Abuse, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-07-30 05:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Dryheat/pseuds/Southern_Dryheat
Summary: Brendon Urie experiences a lot of abuse from partners, 'fan's, and strangers throughout his adult life in P!ATD. He doesn't deal with it well, but manages to hide this specific pain from the world and current relationships. Finally breaking down after refusing to be open and intimate with his current partner, being attacked multiple times, and an ex admitting to abuse causing unforseen drama, he tries to kill himself unsuccessfully. Now, forced to deal with his demons, he reflects back on everything that's happened to him.This is a long slow build, but I promise shit goes down. It gets really really dark, before a small happy ending.





	1. In the beginning...

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one is boring and detailed. Just set up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present day Brendon (2019) reflects back on his life. This chapter mostly takes place in 2004.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: This is Brendon’s perspective in the present (2019) looking back at his past. His present day thoughts are in italics without apostrophes, his past thoughts in in italics with apostrophes, anyone else’s thoughts are explicitly indicated and are also in apostrophes but not italics (unless for emphasis) like: “Ryan thought ‘If only my parents accepted me too…’ “ Obviously, dialoglue is in quotation marks.

He just needs to reflect. And now that he thinks about it, he’s had this type of narration running through his mind his whole life. This feels weirdly religious, confessional, he supposes, looking up at the white hospital ceiling. This is a conversation with himself, his consciousness, his soul. He’ll be completely honest for this. It’s alright; _I mean, shit, No one’s gonna hear this._ This is in his mind. Perhaps Brendon needs this after what’s happened. His life has truly reached a climax. Every waking moment, memories going all the way back, has led to this.

Let’s start at the beginning.

His family didn’t expect anymore children. A surprise, of course, surely an omen of who he is. They weren’t planning on Kyla being the last either; they just weren’t planning anything. However, the moment, according to her, that she registered two lines with wide eyes, she said he’d be the last. Mom says their family felt complete.

As a tiny one, from infancy, his whole family, siblings, parents ^especially mom^, coddled him, and he certainly found a taste for attention. Contrarily, the Urie's, being absolute LEGENDS_, _were soon careful to reciprocate attention and adoration in small doses or for valid circumstances. And in addition, when he earned it. They raised him right. He loves his family. Even if he was a little punk most of the time, to him they formed all those years growing up into memories he only thinks of with sweet nostalgia. Not that it was perfect, but rather the good and the bad are all perfect to him. Although he hasn't always felt this way, he wouldn’t change any his childhood for the life of him.

His parents got him into their music. His siblings had their bands. Everyone sang in the car and while they did chores. And held as a treasure chest in his heart…in his chest, gathering around the piano somehow squeezing seven of them so tight, they’d sing all the Christmas hits. Carols, hymns, Sinatra, even some radio crap, you name it, they loved it all. Sometimes, mom would sit him on her lap, and he could play along. Well, try. Despite her lessons since he was a toddler, he must’ve been at least seven before he could really tap the keys. And that’s how he found his first love, savior and God: music. Sparing all the other influence, like the Mormon culture around him lovin’ church songs, orchestration, musicals and Disney, those few golden sounds with his family truly birthed music as his religion. So of course, he joined band in elementary, playing the most outspoken simple instrument, the trumpet. At least, until Mr. Matta suggested drums after being cruelly hindered by his cheesy new preteen 6th grade braces from playing that god-awful golden horn. _Goodbye trumpet!_ He fucking loved playing the drums. He still can’t believe his parents let him play for hours on end, every single day, even if it was in the garage. Maybe they were cool with anything that killed his energy off and occupied him. God, he was such an ADHD nuisance to his parents, to any adults, actually.

Where was he? _Oh yeah, music. Uh, high school. Um so, uh,_ He joined band and jazz band in freshman year and continued that for basically the next four years. He says basically since sometimes he didn’t have room for those two extra electives, and one time he tried out choir. It wasn’t for him. Thankfully, as he joined jazz and band in junior year that next semester, not only returning to his natural disposition, but his favorite teacher Mr. Matta transferred back to teaching high school. Now he's getting somewhere…

He was sitting on the drum pedestal laughing with some friends around, tapping a little. Anxious to start playing already, he's sure he acted like a total spaz. As usual, he was the class clown while talking up a storm and switching between like 5 people and a couple different conversations. He glanced across the room for just a second and noticed that he had clearly caught some guy’s attention. Of course he did, he was such a loud jittery mess; nothing unusual. However, that guy was unusual. The guy was new. Brendon asked Kaylee, a gossip girl although she never meant any harm, who he was.

“Oh, him. He’s the new kid. Brent Wilson. Mrs. Jones introduced him last hour in math. I’m sure Mr. Matta will do the same,” she remarked.

“Ya know anything ‘bout the kid?”

“Yeh. He transferred over from some uppity Catholic school. Guess he wasn’t a good Christian boy” Kaylee mocked in a silly tone. Her friend gave a little gasp at the obvious jeer.

“You’re so bad! Do you say that shit on Sundays?” the girl joked. There was some kind of religious conflict going on between Kaylee and her parents, and she was making constant reference to it. Brendon never found out any more.

“Hey, well I’m gonna talk to him,” he stated abruptly. Another guy nonchalantly responded,

“Class starts in a few seconds.”

“oh, maybe later then."

Class whizzed by totally normal. Mr. Matta introduced Brent awkwardly,

“Class, this is a new student who just came over from Bishop Gorman Catholic high school. Say hello to Brent wilson,” and the class responded monotone and apathetically,

“Hi Brent.”

He noticed Brent was assigned to play the guitar and had a Wheezer shirt on. Nobody seemed to talk to him, and only acknowledged him to pass sheet music. Brendon knew how that felt. When he came to Palo Verde, no one knew him, since he lived 45 minutes away in a low class metro-neighborhood, just that year. After class ended and just a few minutes before the bell would ring, Brendon approached him like the outgoing friendly person he was.

“Hey, great guitar playing. Also I like your shirt. Nice to meet you. I’m Brendon,” he casually complemented.

“Thanks. Brent. Do you really think so? I’m in a band so I wanna be good enough to at least play at some cafès. We haven’t had any luck so far. Honestly, I think it’s ‘cause Ryan's so shy. I wouldn’t be so hesitant otherwise,” he conceded.

“Wow. Yeah, of course man. I can play a little since I’ve been practicing at home for a couple years now, but you on the other hand have some real talent,” the drummer said rambling quickly.

“Do you wanna give it a try? I think we have two minutes,” the guitarist proposed, out of the blew, grinning slyly like Brendon was ignorant of the exciting light bulb that popped into his thoughts with ‘ding'. He moved to take the black glossy guitar from him in answer to his offer and then played a song he knew well. He doesn’t remember what it was, but Brent seemed to approve. The rest of the day went on, and Brendon started walking towards the parking lot after leaving his last class when he heard someone shout his name.

“HEEEY! Brendon!” he turned around. It was Brent. The new kid briskly jogged to catch up, slightly out of breath.

“Hey, man,” Brendon responded.

“Do you have a car?”

“uh, yeah a truck. Why?”

“Well I was gonna catch the city bus back to my friend's house when I got an idea. Our guitar player left and we need a new one. You’ve got the charm and looks, and of course, you can play.”

“Are you asking me if I want to play guitar for your band?” he asked for clarification. _'Jesus, I just met the guy. Maybe it isn’t a serious matter to him_.'

“Yes. The guys will call it an audition, but really they just want someone who can play decently. They know no one else is gonna ‘audition'. I know we’ll take you,” he said with air quotes. Shocked that anyone would ask some weird spazzy Mormon kid he just met to be a part of such a personal project so casually, he concluded that _‘it must not mean much to him…actually wait, maybe they’re just desperate???’_ Music was his identity so he couldn’t relate to former and chose the latter. He’s an optimist.

“Alright. So I'm driving then, right. What’s the address? My car's over here," he said pointing.

They arrived at a suburban house and got out. He led the jittery boy through the front door and snaked a hallway where Brendon could hear instruments playing a blink-182 song. It was loud, but somehow muffled. Brent entered the basement, and the boys stopped playing to greet him. They immediately noticed the other kid standing there and were confused.

“Who's he?” barked a guy from behind a drum kit. _‘He’s the kid in the pictures on the fridge,’_ B mentally marked. he was a little intimidated. They all stared.

“Hey, guys. So this is another kid from Palo Verde. He's a total social butterfly and talked to me even though I was alone. I met him in my new jazz class, and he played my guitar. He said he’ll audition for our band,” Brent explained.

“That’s cool. Great! Hey, I’m Spencer and that’s Ryan." Ryan raised his hand briefly. Sensing quickly that Spencer was a real bro, the auditioner finally felt the tension break. They all had fringe hair, and Ryan had eyeliner like all the bands the anxiety plagued ADHD teenager listened to, even the local ones.

“Hi. My name’s Brendon. So, uh, do you want me to play something, or should I try to learn your songs and come back? Uh yeah...” he awkwardly trailed off. He felt a little anxiety even though it was an amateur high school band with kids just like him. ‘_Of course they wouldn’t want me to come back, stupid; why would Brent have brought me here otherwise?’_

“Here,” Ryan muttered as he ducked under his guitar strap, which had an intricate pattern woven in. “We’re just a cover band for now so just play anything you know,” the tall lanky kid instructed while handing him the instrument. He took it and noticed how slender Ryan was when he curved to stand before. Just strumming and placing his fingers, he prepared to play. Since they needed a guitar player and he thought he wasn’t very good, he decided to focus on simply playing a song without any singing. Besides, he could feel the pressure of Ryan's stoic gaze. Unlike the other two, Brendon couldn’t read his face, which didn’t help B's racing thoughts. Thankfully, It was going good, and soon enough he regained his usual confidence. Once he finished, they even clapped a little. They accepted him. He hung out with them, giddy with jokes as usual, and then drove home. Not long after, he realized it wasn’t all that serious, and Ryan was just that type of guy. He told his parents about the band at dinner.

A few weeks later, after consistently practicing after school with them, Brendon still felt like the odd one out. He’s not sure why he developed such immediate adoration for them, but it affected the way he behaved. Perhaps it was because deep down he knew this was an endeavor he wanted to take seriously. And yeah he was outgoing, quickly becoming the comic relief and social glue between friends, but ultimately, the clown was just seeking approval unlike other settings. Despite the beginnings of his inferiority complex forming, he deciphered their gratitude for him, even filtered through his doubtful eyes. Fortunately dissolving that heaving hanging fog for a brief time, they blessed him with a life altering decision. Maybe things would have turned out the same, but he’ll always believe it changed things for him. The Nevada air was hot and dry, but underground with the guys, a disgusting humidity settled in. He tried filling the heavy void, rambling nervously, but his words only further cluttered the air.They were tired and considering giving up for the day since Ryan was sick.

“C'mon! Can’t you just hum the melody? Ugh,” Spencer complained to his childhood friend. Clearly, he wanted to keep going.

“I don’t want to argue,” Ryan hoarsely directed, simply skipping the usual small bickering the band entertained ritualiscally. He supposes it was to avoid talking at all. They sat in silence looking at one another in their dilemma. It wasn’t awkward, just annoying.

“Do we really need the vocals? We’ve been doing alright so far. Practice is still practice, and God knows we need it, if the last two hours have anything to show,” Brendon quietly contributed. They wanted to practice, and he could hear a pleading tone in Ryan's sparing words. He wanted to please everyone, but they weren’t having it.

“I guess we don’t need them, but do you really want to play a shitty instrumental version for the hundredth fucking time! I can’t enjoy a wordless imitation right now,” Spen snapped angrily, but it just ended up sounding exhausted.

“Why don’t you sing?” Brent suggested, looking at Brendon who almost jumped. Damn, he forgot Brent existed. He barely said a word that whole day; it seemed as if he just didn’t care enough.

“If it helps. I’ll do anything you want,” Bren said to all three, but he looked to Ryan for the final say. Their conversation thus far wasn’t dramatic, they were just done for day. Ryan nodded picking up B's chord sheets to play his part. They gave the song one more try, getting through the cover rather naturally. It wasn’t till they finished that he noticed their moods seemed significantly improved.

“Goddamn Brendon!” said Spence. Ryan smiled and bobbed his head enthusiastically, which was a lot for him. Brent just laughed.

“Really guys? I only sing for tips at work; I can’t really sing, can I?” Ryan made the effort to speak, the laughter quieting,

“Why didn’t you tell us you could sing?” _I guess I got my answer; apparently I could sing._

“I didn’t know I could."


	2. Out of my Parents’ Hair, into a New Fire (aka, Ryan wtf.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to shitty titles! I honestly cringe reading them.
> 
> Brendon allows Ryan to bully him because he's never had to deal with serious conflict with those he loves. Then he pushes Ryan a little too far. The next chapter will be the same events (with some additional) but from Ryan's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: This in Brendon’s perspective in the present (2019) looking back at his past (May 2005). His present day thoughts are in italics without apostrophes, his past thoughts are in italics with apostrophes, anyone else’s thoughts are explicitly indicated and are also in apostrophes but not italics (unless for emphasis) like: “Ryan thought ‘If only my parents accepted me too…’ “ Obviously, dialoglue is in quotation marks.
> 
> Ryan and Brendon really did write IWSNT and "Lying" after discussing Ryan's feelings about his cheating highschool girlfriend. Other than that, most of these details should be recognizable as fact or fiction to most fans.

The months slipped by before he realized the sense of normalcy that he felt with the band. Soon enough, hanging with them felt like habit. They were his friends now. In addition, they progressed in several varying ways, _much to our relief; cause honestly, we sucked ass._ First, that very afternoon, he watched the three unanimously vote to his shock that he should take the lead vocals from that point forward. _‘Acceptance. Approval! God, they trust me_’ he reconciled silently. It was all so shattering and important to him at the time. Next, a major step as a band, because everyone knows cover bands are a sham, they began recording some songs. They were just demos, and the three even had a couple before he joined, but they really took shape as the the band dedicated their souls to this project which kept getting more serious. Sparing not an ounce of excess time, any minute they could seize outside of family, school, and jobs they ran to practice with. Well, that is all of them except Brent. Spencer and Brendon died everyday with their respective instruments, and Ryan drove himself, not to mention everyone else, mad as the creative force behind lyrics and over all conception, but Brent…Brent didn’t do damn fucking thing. He barely showed up, and was thus always behind on all details. Spen and Bren just became tired of him while Ryan’s true colors showed with red hot perfectionism and not an grain of patience. Ryan _hated_ the man. B didn’t really know how close they were before he came, but none of them even be bothered being friends with Brent after awile in the proceeding couple years they knew him. B doesn’t know what his deal was, but if he had to guess, the band didn’t mean the same thing to him as them. He didn’t care, and the ground was fine, but they wanted to build a rocket to the moon. Ryan, Spence, and B wrote ‘Fever’ and gave Brent written chords for practice and eventually tour.

During senior year, they worked for hours on end late into the night at a public practice building writing what would become an album. Spencer, sure enough, proved to be the ultimate bro: ever the mediator, and grounded realist. Ryan was a true genius, _but God, he had anger issues_. It was suprising, coming from the pensive reserved noodle. He didn’t know pasta could be so irritable and physical. Sometimes, Brendon was convinced the lyricist hated him, but then he remembered Brent, and _the true lack of a goddamn fuck he gave talking to that loser_ as opposed to him. Sure, he got in his face and screamed, and sometimes hit him, although his sharp wit and sarcasm always left him feeling more bruised than anything else, but when he spoke to Brent he was just done. Brendon told myself he was angry because he cared. And he really did. He took the initiative to guarantee they were going places, and posted their demo tracks to a fan forum FOB occasionally checked up on. The internet was… it was just different back then. And by the grace of a God that doesn’t exist, they were blessed with the miracle of recognition by the angel that was Pete Wentz that day. Somehow, some teenagers in a basement and then tiny public studio room impressed the holy man, and he offered to hear them play live and maybe sign them to Decaydance. _Was he **looking** for FBR recruits to put under his wing? Who knows, the angel never told me._ Although his grades were sinking heavy with an anchor of apathy, and church was Hell, that week he was inflated with new found joy in apprehension of Pete's arrival scheduled for the following weekend. The recent benevolence bestowed upon them by the Universe and Pete temporarily decimated any of their previous conflicts; Ryan relaxed, for once, and Spencer lost a bit of his usual maturity in the fun of it all, even Brent showed up, and the usual-extrovert B finally opened up when he previously held back quite a lot, fearing rejection. To their relief _but not our **fucking sanity** because we lost our minds upon hearing the news, Saint Pete our music father, lord, and savior, **SIGNED**_** US**_.__ Wtf. I still don’t believe it after 1.5 decades. Yeah, you bet we worked our asses off after that._ They decided to move to Maryland immediately after graduation to record and produce the final version of ‘A Fever You Cant Sweat Out'. The event convinced Brendon not to go to college, Ryan _quit_ college, and they told their parents ‘_this is our future now,’_ in addition to being atheist for added measure. _Yeah, that was kinda dumb_. They didn’t kick B out per se, but the animosity provoked him find his own apartment. He still went to church, and he convinced his teachers to give him passing grades, but admittedly senior year was a sad disappointment in the least, and repugnant disgrace at worst, to all of the adults in his life. But for him, senior year was finally when he took his life into his own hands at 18 years old in fulfillment of who he really was at heart finding ultimate happiness.

While they were still in Nevada, the guys found themselves at Brendon's apartment whenever they weren’t sweating out their souls in that claustrophobic public practice space. It was their refuge, and Bren didn’t find it strange at all when Ryan stayed longer than everyone else and sometimes even slept over. No longer with his cheating girlfriend Shayla, Ryan turned to Brendon to escape his an abusive home life and deal with the recent break up. ‘_If Ryan wants to get away from his drunkard family-beating dad, who am I to judge?_’ Spending more time with the lead guitarist, lyricist, and Panic!’s head, he began remarking all the small details that made a human beautiful: his habits and quirks, his clothing, his forever burning anger which only ever revealed the fear and insecurity underneath, his eyes, ‘_God, his sunflower-amber eyes’,_ even the way the obsessive paranoid kid insisted on being in control of any situation he was involved in. This love was pure, and only became attraction because Brendon would have sex with an aesthically pleasing frying pan if there weren’t so many hot people to choose from constantly. _‘I dunno, I like people_.’ So he started flirting more than usual, since obviously he already flirted with everyone. Ryan didn’t respond; nothing seemed change.

A few weeks passed, and the band was attempting to finish writing one last song before they flew out to Maryland and recorded all the songs and wrote the rest of ‘AFYCSO’. Late one night alone with Brendon, Ryan had opened up and stated how he really felt about Shayla. Right then and there, they wrote ‘Lying’ and part ‘IWSNT, and Brendon knew how personal and significant this was for Ryan. He’d better sing this song perfectly. Continuously singing a few different versions throughout the day, he was tired but confident he could nail it for the band. He, of all people didn’t need to consume energy drinks, even if he was tired, but the reckless kid downed five of the now outlawed drink BawlsTM.

Enter the practice room just two hours later…

“That waS SHIT! Urie! I watched you casually sing my song a _hundred times yesterday,_ but noOW, when_ I_ need you to do it there are fucking voI_CE CRACKS! And yoU’RE OUT oF BREATH!! And you're oFF TIME. AND YOU'RE. OFF. PITCH. WHAT!ThE. F U U U C K!!!?!?! Brendon_,” Ryan spat and then sneered his name out through his teeth. Ry's emotions were a rusty negelected tool; thus, the wordsmith lacked dexterity handling them, and when he did, the dusty orange metal crumbled. Nervous, Brendon exponentiontially produced errors only a man born deaf could make. Of course, Ryan took them personally and as intentional blunders. ‘_Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have drinken those; my anxiety's going through the roof under Ryan's judgement_,’ the shaky kid thought, worried how he’d persevere through this. It made the him uncomfortable, since he already showed Ryan his interest with a little flirting; now it felt like he took that interest and threw it back directly at his face. Starting the afternoon by not-so-subtly implying that Brendon’s mouth was better for other uses, until he proved otherwise, this session wasn’t going well. However, after only a few smaller insults and glares, Ryan lost it on Brendon. This was the angriest they had ever seen him thus far, but unbeknownst to them, much worse was to come. Now, Brendon was cowering against the wall after flinching at every poisonous word that stabbed him over and over. He didn’t have a response just yet; he was still shocked.

“WeLL?”Ryan bore his eyes into him with raised eyebrows as silence continued to fall. His breathing stressed, somehow even after that eruption, deep within chambers still lurked red hot wrath. The agonizing lack of sound persisted, much to Ryan's dissaproval. He snapped again. Gasping, Brendon's eyes quickly widened while the older kid jumped across the room, grabbed his collar with both fists and slammed him against wall, all in about 0.5 seconds.

“_ANSWER ME_!” he screamed. Even Spencer and Brent's ears hurt, and they weren’t a shoved centimeter directly against his face.

“look I, I uh, I’m just stressed out. You can understan-"

“No, I cant! I don’t get it, Brendon! ‘_This is our future now_', right? What the hell? I _know_ you can sing this. I know you can sing this with _ease_. There's no fucking excuse! You’re not sick! You know the song, you’re _F I N E_! Why-”

“Look! _Ryan_,” he interjected, finally asserting himself, “I know I can sing it just fine. _But_ sometimes people stress me the _fuck_ out, and I can’t do my goddamn job! You’re insane, and I’m nervous! You put a lot of pressure on me, Ryan. I cant-"

“So,” he gave a low irreverent chuckle cutting the smaller kid off, “just allow me to summarize what you really mean; after fucking up impossibly bad, obviously intentionally, now you’re blaming me then, huh? It’s all my fault. I get it now. I understand.” he rambled eerily calm.

“NO! No, I-" Before he could finish, Ryan let go of his collar allowing him to slump over only to immediately use the position to knee him hard in the ribs. He hit the diaphragm, directly knocking the wind out of him. The vocalist wouldn’t have fallen over, but then R punched him in the face. Still gasping for air, Ryan took the opportunity to start kicking him in the stomach. Finally, Spencer shook off the initial shock to intervene before he put Brendon in the hospital. The drummer lunged at him, because only that amount of force was going to tear Ryan away from his kill.

“RYAN!! Ryan! What the hell!?! C'mon man, Brendon can’t die at 18! He has a life to live,” he stated figuratively, trying to joke a little. ‘_Lord praise Hallelujah for Spencer James Smith.’_ Ryan backed off only giving one last verbal kick,

“yeah, a life not worth much, that is,” he said lowly, looking past Spencer and directly at Brendon. Spencer was about to lose it himself, but before he could open his mouth to berate Ryan, Brendon was running still heaving over, gasping for breath, and falling all over the place as he managed to make it out the door and down the hall fairly fast. Spencer immediately followed trying to catch up.

“Bren! Bren, wait up! I’m coming,” he yelled as he saw the other desperately trying to avoid potential conversation. Walking, or more like falling, to his car, Brendon felt humiliated. Spencer didn’t need to see him like this. Despite his emotional state hindering all his motions, he continued to oppose his current inability to use his motor function skills and grasped at any dexterity left to put his keys in the vehicle. Naturally, his intentions amounted to nothing when the metal bits slipped through his clammy fingers, and he failed to escape Spencer. Unable to calm down, his knees seemed to give way but he didn’t hit the ground. Arms scooped under him as they both slid down against the truck with the momentum his weight carried until Spencer was on the asphalt, and he was in Spencer’s lap. Realizing it was too late to hide the mess he was, he let the tension go by breaking into free sobs.

“Wh-hy?” he breathed out between quick exasperated broken breaths.

“Aw, he doesn’t mean it B. He’s just trying to get under your skin. That’s all he wants.” Spencer rubbed Brendon's arm, his head in his lap, as the shaking kid progressively slowed his breathing until calm. Obviously, panic attacks weren’t knew to the jittery mess. Remaining there for awhile even after a peace descended, he pushed up from Spin's hold and grabbed the fallen keys. Then, saying nothing except a simple ‘bye’ and a small hug, Bren climbed into the vehicle and solemnly drove away. Besides small slugs and slaps, that was the first time Ryan really hit Brendon. _I was out of my parent’s hair and into a new a fire_, he summarizes strangely using an idiom. But back then he didn’t see flames that inevitably would consume them both; he only saw someone who was burning and needed help, and he thought he could be Ryan's water, not gasoline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Brendon once said he didn't understand the label of "emo" they gained since the stereotype was sad guys writing songs about their breakups. While I dissagree with definition of "emo", I find it hilarious that's exactly what their hit song IWSNT and "Lying" are, if you read the beginning chapter notes.


	3. Ryan is fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that's happened so far but from Ryan's perspective! Ryan actually isn't fine! (obviously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: This chapter is in Ryan's perspective in the past (2004-2005), but uses present tense. Ryan's thoughts are in italics without apostrophes, anyone else’s thoughts are explicitly indicated and are also in apostrophes but not italics (unless for emphasis) like: “Brendon thought ‘Wow, he really is trying.’ “ Obviously, dialogue is in quotation marks. 
> 
> Did you know 'haven't you people ever heard of closing the Goddamn door' is actually a quote from Ryan's father in real life. I wasn't making that up. Anyways, I like adding weird details from reality, but that doesn't mean anything else I write is true.

A school he hates, a condemning religion, a father that beats him, siblings that ran away, and a passive delusional mother, outside of Spencer and their band, Ryan has nothing. _I’m nothing_. acutely aware of what little insubstantial life is his, he stays with Spencer as much as he can without alarming the Smiths because adults calling CPS would only light a fuse on his dad and put him far away in foster care. Away from Spencer, and he needs Spen. So when the drummer rather endearingly but inappropriately lost his mind defending the elder's sexuality, Ryan regrets allowing their guitarist’s insults to divide their friendship. He knows that Trevor would have left eventually, but Ryan allows himself to push the one person he cares about away, and just because of the integrity of the stupid band. He's not blind. In fact, he’s hyperaware of his unhealthy patterns. _I’m too weak to break my habits. I’m too weak to change. I deserve to be alone_. Despite Spencer being the one good thing in his shitty life, he somehow manages to slowly poison his friendship with the lifeling loyal companion. But Trevor's just one straw. Ryan has a lifetime of straws on the camel's back of their friendship. After years of reassuring remarks such as ‘You know you’re my brother, right?’ and ‘I love you’s, he's never returned the declarations of affection. Maybe he’s afraid of commitment. Maybe it’s internalized homophobia, (and maybe that’s why he defended Trevor), even though neither of them feel that way towards one another. Either way, he denies his guilt for the conflict and pretends everything is fine. He has a witty beautiful girlfriend, and always endures his family, and school, and church; he’d be fine living through his slow drift from Spencer. He is fine. He knows he's fucking up again, but he’s fine.

They continue their almost daily basement meet-ups one lucky clover leaf short, and life picks up a steady pace. Everything is _fine_. Although it’s the worst day of the week, Monday, Ryan is happy. Getting grades, actually smiling throughout the school day, he smiles at Spencer later that day too. Brent arriv-_WAIT. Wtf. Who's that?_ There's a petit raven-haired boy sheepishly trying to stand behind their bassist as much as possible. Ryan's not expressing his confusion and angry aversion to surprises, but Spencer somehow sees it anyways and expresses the thought for him,

“Who's he?” Spencer asks. After Brent explains that this kid was a random spur of the moment thought to replace Trevor, Spencer introduces himself and his asocial best friend. The kid returns the introduction fumbling his words, diverting his eyes and bouncing his leg. Ryan wants to be angry, but he just met the guy and he seems nervous. _At least pretend you’re a good person_. Ignoring his stupid feelings, like he always does, he entertains the audition and even hands the small guy his own guitar. _It’s fine. Just think. It’s just one surpr-Fuck_. This Brendon kid can play better than him. _Well, two surprises_. Despite his perfectionist ego, he concludes they need this talent. He needs Brendon's talent so the band can fulfill all the goals he has planned. _It’s ok if I’m not the best we have; in fact it's great, because that would be some **disgustingly** low standards_. Everything is fine. He’s fine.

“What are you a vampire, Ross?” Spencer scoffs amused. He’s been staying inside alone while the rest of the band eagerly get to know their new member. _Yeh, maybe,_ he responds to Spencer in thought, _His smile is too bright for my jealous eyes, and his optimism burns my skin to reveal the monster within_. They go to the movies, skating, and even buy him dinner. Clearly, they’re quite taken by the kid’s sickly sweet cheeriness.

Weeks pass, and Ryan finally has his fourth clover leaf, this time truly lucky. But au contraire de la fortune, Ryan is melting in despair. In fact, the whole quartet is boiling to a slow death. They’re in the basement avoiding the summer heat, but it all feels a bit pointless since Brendon is the fucking sun. It’s just too hot for _that_ much energy and joy. He knows Brendon's only nervous-happy because the heavy air is pressure on the the kid’s anxiety, but _Oh my God, when will he just stfu. Isn’t the moron tired?_ Yet, his antics pulled Spencer’s fatigued lips away to reveal bright teeth at least ten times more than Ryan achieved in the last week. Yeah, he’ll smother the light as soon as the heat releases them from its weight. Dismally, he can’t even find a familiar icy anger to cool down because he's tired and sick with a flu. Plus, his new guitarist’s desire to please is washing the rage away. He's giving up for the afternoon. _Besides, why be angry when I can’t even talk?_ But he didn’t know he’d lose his voice in more ways than one that day. Finally, Brent speaks up and unwittingly seizes what sickness temporarily suppressed. If he hadn’t made the suggestion, Ryan would sing the words he birthed, but a shared custody with Brendon is a blessing he must accept. _Think of the band. It’s all you have. You don’t deserve a voice_. He ordains the sun a golden crown of _vocalist_ with the authority that is his. Accordingly, the star only beams brighter in gratitude, and Ryan squints his eyes away at the thought of this new friend. But like everyone else, this shining kid made for the stage, an audience, and roar of applause, whether it was literal or room full friends, Brendon is just another convenient tool for his own objectives. _That's normal; everyone always wants **something** out of others, even if they tell themselves otherwise._

For example, his <strike>girlfriend</strike> ex-girlfriend Shayla who only ever wanted his dick, nothing more. First seeing her in English class, wearing the school's Catholic uniform, and last seeing her with one their classmates, wearing nothing. Text after text, each one further revealing how little she meant to him in the endless menagerie of lovers he managed to pull from her nervous fingers after catching her cheating, he was just another lay. _Can I blame her? I’m not worth anything_. And that's ok, because to him, she was just another house, other than Spencer's, to escape to. Besides, he could live without his father walking in on them and chiding ‘_Haven’t you people ever heard of closing Goddamn door?_’. Reflecting back now, it was a pretty lame remark, but the embarrassment stayed with him, and he stuck to going to her house. Once just another building, now she’s just another repulsive memory he could put behind him. Brendon would be no different. Like everyone else, Ryan is a tool to him, and he to Ryan. Spencer's a sanctuary to find refuge in, Brent’s, _wait, actually Brent’s useless_, and now Brendon has joined the toolbox as a set of vocal chords. And it’s a two way street too; to Spencer, he’s a reason to feel good knowing someone else is infinitely more fucked up, to Brent, a chance at fame, and to Brendon, well, Ryan would find out soon. _Probably not much, unless he’s delusional._

And indeed, he's finding out soon, or at least he thinks he is from his own broken perspective. Brendon wants to fuck him, _or maybe be fucked?_ Either way, various behaviors are starting to make sense now as he cleverly rationalizes the guy's admiration away. Not knowing that Brendon genuinely wants to see the beauty in everyone, even Ryan who is a barely functional human being, he categorizes all past and future praise and lack of conflict as an extension of the singer’s crush. _Yeah. I was right. The kid's definitely delusional_. And that's ok because he's found a new use for Brendon too. Hanging out when they’re not practicing, like Shayla, he's another house, or rather apartment, other than the Smiths’. So through the elder cynic's eyes, Brendon is an _apartment_ and _voice_, and Ryan is an unfortunate set of teenage hormornes, a _crush_. And it’s fucking obvious; The evidence is in the small things: Stocking the fridge with food that Ryan likes, breaking into grins at even the slightest acknowledgement, and the way he lingers on Ryan's every word, even in arguments. And, _oh shit. The idiot just winked at me. He doesn’t see I’m not worth it_. Ryan has it all figured out. Despite Brendon's best intentions, he’ll always be innocent and naïve because now Ryan can dismiss him and his admiration away as a passing collection of neuro-chemicals. Remaining ignorant and pure, because Ryan doesn’t need to prove to him why his adoration is ill-conceived. Why in reality, Ryan is a shattered person tinting the outside world a repulsive shade to the fair view of anyone else's unbroken eyes. If _anyone_ approached a close relationship with him, surely Ryan's closed spiteful heart and cold mind, left to see friendship as a convenient social institution, would hurt them and whatever they had between them beyond repair. Ryan doesn’t have to let Brendon see the truth.

The camaraderie permeates the room with laughter pointed towards the high-energy boy or coming from him. He wishes his friends considered him important enough to pay attention to too. Often, outshining Brendon's hold on the group's eyes and ears is impossible without completely shutting him up like the moon causes an eclipse; the moon can’t beam brighter than the sun, but it can certainly block it’s like light. Despite the despondency of the local power outage, their replacement light will have to quiet for the darkness of focus.

“Alright! Alright. Come on, guys. Snap out of it. I don’t have much patience right now,” Ryan interjects in an attempted kind tone. Spencer comes down from his laughing fit to breathlessly respond,

“Yeah, ok. I have some ideas for the timing of ‘I'm Exactly Where You'd Like Me.' ” Ryan's eyebrows furrow, the expression only further exaggerated by the candlelight below him.

“I thought we discussed that hours go, when Brent was still here.” Brendon finally calms down enough to descend into the conversation;

“Well, yeah, but even he agreed it was awkward with your lyrics. The syllables and phrasing are just all off!” The lyricist’s mind immediately jumps to dissagreement; he’d take any possible critique to start conflict with Brendon.

“Oh, it’s _my_ lyrics that are the issue _Ok. Sure, Brendon_.” The boy’s eyes narrow for a split second, but ultimately he ignores him and continues,

“I believe Spencer was thinking, if we went back to 4/4, then the phrases would sound more natural, but we’d have to alter the melody to make it work. Oh! Wait, wait! I have an idea!” He seizes Ryan's notebook in excitement without thinking and knocks over the candle in the split second he puts down the journal. While wax spills from the crater, the wick stays lit and catches the corner of the notebook, which is curled upward, when the candle rolls. Both Brendon and Ryan react instantly, causing their efforts to take longer as they get in each other's way. Throwing his hands up and backing away dramatically, the lyricist gives up and permits the fumbling boy to finish the job. Brendon actually smothered the flames out efficiently with a dish towel, but it’s the wax that got on his hands, Ryan's hands, and everywhere else that he doesn’t know what to do with. Brendon definitely burned his fingers in the process.

“Yup, the chords you wrote aren’t gonna cut it. That's why we ever went with 3/4 in the first place,” Ryan finally replies to break the awkward silence as cooled wax crumbles and falls from fingers (Brendon's) too nervous to stay still.

“yeh." It’s uninspired, but when he looks up at Ryan, he's not angry. He's amused?!? A jester's smug smile, he obviously sees an unseen private comedy; and Brendon's scared? He thinks he doesn’t wanna find out. The grin expands to completion when the joker poses,

“WHYAREYOUSUCHANIDIOT!?!” rhetorically, of course.

"_Oh._" the _idiot_ thinks.Flushing red, Brendon feels almost humiliated from the anticipation and insulting answer, defensively biting back,

“I know Ryan! I get it already. You don’t always have to point out how stupid I am. Jesus.” But Ryan laughs; he actually laughs. Lips pulled to the side, Spencer just stares while the joke of the day, a little hurt, picks at the loose threads of his jeans. They don’t see the amusement, so the offender clarifies,

“_You_ used the word stupid, _not_ me. You’re taking _my_ job Bren!” Brendon doesn’t respond. It might’ve been funny if everyone _didn’t_ know he really believes the offensive words, but they’re well aware. And because feeling superior places more bricks down, puts up more walls further constructing a secure fortress of isolation, he selfishly chases the emotion. Two seconds pass. The initial comment was bad taste if he read the room, but he continues to indulge the humor in his high. Still laughing,

“God, it’s been hours and all because you’re a fucking moron, and can’t focus for shit!” he giggles, “To think, if only you guys would’ve listened to me in the first place…!" The cackling dissolves to a silence, and he finally sees Brendon's expression falling dejectedtly. Suddenly, he feels his chest constrict with guilt. The raven-crowned teen dips his head and says nothing. _He’s hurt, **but** he’s ignoring it_. To him, it’s strange; he never failed in seeking dominance, understanding, and even compromise when faced with dissagreement.

“Bren?” he asks in a concerned tone clearly vying for an explanation.

“I-"stopping to inhale in preparation, “I-, it’s just that, well, I kind of _like_ you, you’re so talented, but you don’t seem very impressed by me. In fact, half the time you don’t even put effort in just to be _friends_. You always insult me, not just when you’re mad. And its like, not like normal, it’s not angry, it’s, it’s _cold_,” he softly concedes in barely a whisper. Opening floodgates of Ryan’s feelings, he needs to shut the compliment and simultaneous critique _down_. He dismisses Brendon's admission and addresses the other points,

“No. You don’t get to say I’m talented. There are prodigies and savants and whatever the fuck who can play seven instruments by the age of five and read Mary Shelley for entertainment.” _Alright, that's enough explanation_. However, he can see Spen's eyes shift from anger to pity as he counters,

“Ry,” he starts with the rarely used nickname, “You can’t compare yourself to others like that. You kno-” _He doesn’t understand. He’s wrong!_

“I can write some pretty words that usually don’t even rhyme or have rhythm after hours of scribbling and piles of rejects in the trash. I can barely function. I have trouble completing normal tasks.” His voice is strained and shaky_. shut.up.shutup.shutupnonono I don't need to correct him now!_ “Even you can play the guitar better than me,” he turns to Brendon away from Spencer’s guilt inducing gaze, “now sing better too. You were _supposed_ to be our temporary guitarist,"

“Permanent. We knew Trevor wasn’t coming back,” Spencer corrects. He wants to start another argument but decides one at a time and continues,

“but now _you_ sing!” _No! I don’t need this argument. Let him believe I’m better than I am!_

“Yeah, and who decided that?” Brendon contradicts, trying to point out that this is subjective, only from Ryan's perspective. Ultimately, if Ryan thinks Brendon is just sooo _aMaZiNg_, then his new role certainly doesn’t validate any truth of that since he's the one who placed him there in the first place. Ryan disagrees. _No, Fuck that! Its logic, you idiot. How dare he. I didn’t want this!_

“Certainly not me! It was the _only_ logical choice,” he reasons and then further compares, “You have endless energy, you’re kind, and make everyone smile. _Except_ for me because I’m tired and can't keep up with everyone else that’s better than me and cares enough to be thoughtful of others,” he lists as if they’re insults, not compliments. _Fuck. Shit. Just stop. I need to stop.uh.um.ahhh, but I’m right! My whole life is a mess because of who I am. How dare they deny the shit I have to suffer!_

“_Ryan_.” Spencer crosses his arms and bears a face of dissapointment and worry. _God! I should stop. I should stop right now. Spencer’s fucking concerned. No! I promi-he doesn’t need to know!_ But… Brendon doesn’t give up, and maybe he should because he triggers him into a dark rampage they wish they didn’t hear. He tries to push the boundaries and speaks in Ryan's language, words and reason, beginning,

“How can you say any of that?!? It doesn’t mak-" but Ryan cuts him off,

“I’m nOt dONE! We're only ‘friends',” he uses air-quotes, “because we have common goals and uses for one another,” he pauses, almost as if he wishes things were different, “I _hate_ you, Bren-" his voice cracks and the words get stuck in his throat. “You only remind me of all the reasons I’m repulsive and should find a cliff already,” they hear no hyperbole in his words and take the statement literally. Disregarding his only family (Spencer) because he does _not_ plan on crying in front of them, he chooses to speak solely to Brendon,

“I am not talented. I’m inferior to the _average_ person in almost every way. And you don’t understand that because, even though you bleed talent, you’re so dumb. The evidence is obvious; I’m disgusting, and you’re so fucking stupid for liking me. Maybe both of us deserve to die. You can stop stocking the fridge with bagels, celery, and orange juice.” The younger two clearly want to open their mouths in opposition, but they can’t think of anything quickly, and Ryan's already leaving the apartment. Jumping a little, Brendon tenses as the door slams. He looks bewildered. Despite the lack of emotion expressed while confessing such personal insecurities, he knows Ryan is hurting even though any other person surely would’ve shown more vulnerability.

“Where will he go? Back home? He usually sleeps here or at your house.”

“I don’t know, but you’re probably right; he'll go home,” Spencer predicts. He shifts on the pillows to find direct eye contact, “And B, don’t let him get to you. You know that he has a really fucked up way of looking at things, and that none of it is true, right? None. Well, actually some, his weird compliments were true. Ok, Bren? Do you hear me?” Patting the smaller kid's back, Spencer raises his eyebrows in concern and waiting for a response.

“I know. i know,” he says, but the proceeding silence doesn’t convince the other boy.

“Do you want me to stay? I can stay. I don’t wanna get my sisters ready for bed anyway!”

“No.no,no. I’m just tired. Just go home if you need to. I’m going to bed now,” he finally looks up at Spencer. Rising from the floor, he goes to the light switch to check if the electricity is back on (it is) and almost escapes, but suddenly, he's pulled tight against another body.

“Ok. I’ll go,” Spencer says after an embrace long enough to start feeling awkward.

“Yeah,” he pauses switching thoughts, “I'll have to get Ryan a new notebook. Maybe I'll get a really nice one,” he considers before Spencer finally frees him completely from his hold and responds,

“Alright, that's fine if you want to, but B, you don’t owe him anything right now, especially when he needs to learn how to be nice person. You don’t have to be kind or give him sympathy; that's my job.” He smiles small, and reminds Brendon that Ryan will always have Spencer, in the end. The drummer is younger than he is, but he acts older. Actually, he acts more mature than any of them. Giving a small wave, Brendon recedes down the hallway to wash the wax off his hands in the bathroom hearing Spencer call out from behind him,

“Call me if you need to talk, or if Ryan contacts you! I’ll try talking to him too. Make sure to set your alarm; you have school tomorrow. Bye.”

\- - -

_This place is fucking stupid. They scream of the Lord's love for all his children while they show no acceptance. They’re Goddamn hypocrites. If any of this bullshit is real, surely all these sinners are going to Hell. At least I'm aware of my flaws. Thank God, ha, I’m leaving_. Writing quickly as his thoughts smoothly raced on, background noise to the task, he’s nearly free. There, the last question. Although he complied to his father's wishes before because he enjoyed a bed and air conditioning, now he wanted nothing more than to escape school, escape his family, escape Nevada at any cost. Finally, he turns in the release form from the college semester he joined, (it was barely college, just some course his highschool set up for advanced or even graduated students) and shifts his thoughts elsewhere. He’d never step foot in Bishop Gorman Catholic Highschool again. (Bzzbzz) _oh. a text. Who would text me?_ Flipping open the cellphone and cupping his long hand to see the screen despite the sunlight, he notices he’s actually received eleven texts since last night. They’re from Spencer, of course, oh wait, except for the last one. _Shayla?!? Wtf._

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**New Messages**

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Last from-7:55 A.M.  
**10**  
Spen

  * _George Ryan Ross, you asshole, is ur phone even on? If you see this, its too late cuz im starting class now and you shouldve answered last night when i was worried cuz i fucking care about you. Now i have to go a whole day not knowing if ur ok, bren feels shitty, and this was a bitch to type…_

SELECT TO READ MORE

**Reply Delete**

* * *

Last from-10:29 A.M.-  
**1**  
Shayla

  * _Hey. I saw you leave. I thought you had English 110 this hour. We haven’t talked since, ya know. _:(

**Reply Delete**

* * *

_What’s wrong with her?_ Tasting vinegar as his eyebrows press down over his squinting eyes, he calls her to settle this mess. It doesn’t go well, but at least it’s over. Petty and spiteful because he wanted to be clear that the door was closed, he made her cry._ I wonder if she still went to class_. Although he doesn’t care, the sobs still hurt his ears because he was reminded of the _other_ person he recently hurt. As he groans out loud, he feels pressure on his chest, his head is heavy and hot, and his clothes are strangely sticky. Maybe he _should_ reconcile things with Spencer and Brendon. Since he spends the rest of the day wandering aisles of Wal-Mart, he finally decides to talk to his the newest member when his legs feel too tired to keep walking. Realizing that he probably should’ve texted him first, he remembers that he doesn’t even have the kid's phone number so he just shows up. (knock, knock) He glances down (he's at the top of the building's stairs) to see Brendon's vehicle in the parking lot; he's home.

“_Ryan?_” The door suddenly swings open when he whips his head back to face the voice.

“Hello. Do you have time to talk about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” he comically procrastinates.

“uhh…Ryan,” he sighs, not in the mood for this bullshit, but _Ryan_ cuts him off,

“Hey. I, uh, wanted to talk.” This is exactly the type of situation he's avoided his whole life, but B finally gives a small shy smile and motions to come in, effortlessly smoothing the rough bumps out with proper social skills. Now that Ryan is expressing effort, Brendon’s sweet side returns.

Pushing past the smaller kid, he sits down on the couch and thinks of what to say while looking at his hands. The room is silent. _That’s fine. I don’t want to talk yet either,_ but the peace is soon broken. Despite interupting Ryan's thoughts, the seemingly unfazed brunette makes up for the interjection because he was asking him if he wanted orange juice. _He couldn’t shut up for just one minute? Oh wai-_ Fortunately, he stops himself from scoffing at the abrupt words when his mind registers the offer.

“Ok. Uh, thank you.” He sees the boys face light up as he laughs lightly, using his whole body and throwing his head back. Involuntarily smiling, Brendon's expression subdues his nerves a little. During the time he'd known the kid, he noticed his heartfelt laughs so readily given often, animatedly throwing himself into the action everytime. Despite the garrish extravagance of it, somehow, Brendon made it look easy and natural. _It is, for him. You’ll never be that happy_. He added automatically. However… Normally, joyous expressions, _especially Brendon's_, ignited jealously and irritating confusion within him, but this time it was just fine, nice even. _Familiar_. Now that he's known him for a year

Hearing footsteps, he looked up _Fuck. What am I going say? If I didn’t waste time Godda-_

“Here, ya go.” he takes the glass from the smaller hands. _Those burns are for you. You don’t deserve his love_, he chastises himself silently as he recognizes the candle’s harm.

“Whaddya thinkin’ ‘bout?” Brendon is smiling, but it’s not jarringly bright; it’s gentle.

“hm-what? Uh, sorry,” is all he can force out transitioning from modes of thought.

“You don’t have to say. I was just curious. I know you don’t like when people ask you stuff like that, like when Ginny asks you how you’re doing. Sorry. ” _Why does he have to be so considerate?! The bastard_. He resists the urge to hurt Brendon, to shut him out of friendship forever so he never has to risk feeling loved.

“No, it’s fine,” _Don’t say that! He’ll start asking more questions_. “I was thinking about last night, and, ‘n, i’m uh, _I’m **sorry**_,” he finally whispers. That was surprisingly difficult to say.

“Please ignore everything I said last night; I didn’t mean it,” _you did mean it, actually_, “I-I, I want to be friends, and not just because you’re my most valuable asset in my arsenal; You light up the room with careful reciprocation of each individuals’ emotions, not just a performance, an _interaction_,” Ryan's really on a rant, “You always have an audience, but you’re an audience too, listening and giving the perfect response. You make people feel like they're deserving of your attention, and happiness which shows your approval and love,” he speaks boldly, as if he's reciting a well rehearsed speech, enunciating every sound. He may or may not have thought about this particular aspect of Brendon obsessively. He did. Brendon, speaking of whom, looks confused. Having a hard time understanding _what the Hell_ Ryan just said, he thinks he gets the basic jist of it but,

“What does ruh-prih-soh-kayt mean?” Ryan had an A+ in English senior year, Brendon doesn’t.

“Oh, uh. You mean reciprocate, not repricocate. It’s sort a combo of reflect, give back, and respond.” Finally, Bren concisely addresses all the points R rambled in his tirade,

“Ok.um, I guess I feel like I’m worth something if other people think I am, so I try to make them happy. But I don’t think I can ignore what you said last night, because I wanna be friends _too_.”

“Ha! More than that,” Ryan insults out of habit when things don’t go exactly his way, but Brendon doesn’t yield to the comment he knows was meant to sting,

“because I _care_ about you.” _Well **that** stung. Damn. I have work on my comebacks._

“I-" he doesn’t know how respond, which is an achievement on the younger’s part; Ryan _always_ has a snarky response, even if it’s not wanted.

“I’m going to try to be nicer.” It’s the least anyone should do, but coming from Ryan, the other kid, now grinning wildly with no dignity, knows it means the world. As far as the candle-burned boy is concerned, all is forgiven when _Ryan_ wants to be friends and is going to try to be nice. They talk for hours past the sunset as Brendon slowly opens him up like a clam, trying to get the shining pearl of personable meaning.

"_What_ _happened_?"

"_How does that make you feel?_"

"_Are you cool?_" he entices.

“No, you know what? I bet when she is fucking this other dude she is saying my name!" the private man finally confides under the other's inquiry.

So he does give Brendon a pearl; diving into deeper water, Ryan leaves his comfort zone of shallow conversation by telling him about his recent breakup.

He doesn’t need Shayla…

“No you don’t!” Brendon, his shining ‘yes-man', reiterates, _Of course, this breakup **is** in his favor._

…a cheating girlfriend just to keep up appearances; he doesn’t care if anyone thinks he’s crazy for dropping a girl that hot. _A better touch, a better fu-, a better loving deserving of…, sweetie, you had me…_ Together, transforming his complaints into verses, the vocalist has the ideas (because R doesn’t really want to write a song right now) and the lyricist refines them into actual poetry. Brendon becomes a scribe for him, writing everything down in a leather bound notebook Ryan's never seen before. It feels good. It makes him feel important, but despite enjoying the display of his best talents, he still thinks he’s not good enough.

“Let's move on! I’m tired of making a fool out myself. This is where you take lead, Brendon. Add some melody.”

“A fool!? Your lyrics are gold!” They’re both laughing, but there's a lingering animosity.

“_Really?_” Ryan responds in a judgemental tone. He's done things today he's never done for anyone else before; Brendon should know not to push further, but,

“I think ‘_haven’t you people ever heard of closing the Goddamn door?_’ is priceless,’ he says raising his eyebrows smugly as if no one could counter his example. They repeat the same conflict as the same issue is evoked as last night.

“_hmph_. Quoting my dad isn’t exactly tasteful, _Brendon_. I’m a moronic writer,” he points out the cringe factor, however the sun can’t seem to stop throwing heat when Ryan's insulting himself,

“_Well anyways_, I look at you Ryan, and think you're smart as fuck. You're a modern Lennon!” Ryan scoffs at that. “No really, you’re a genius! _Blah blah blah_-,” (Ryan wasn’t listening) Brendon defends genuinely believing that, but Ryan does not need to hear this right now. He's already _trying_ here. Breaking milestones by the minute, he audibly communicated ‘_I‘m sorry_’, promised future effort, and finally _trusted_ Brendon with _personal_ information. He ceases laughing and shifts to a serious tone responding,

“Actually, I’m not; you’re just an idiot. Ninety-percent of the time I’m just cleverly bullshitting, and you just can’t see that because you’re blinded by your massive crush on me.” Brendon appears visibly disturbed. _Finally! Yeh, that made him uncomfortable_.

Since joining the band, Ryan, the person of his greatest adoration, is the only member refusing to respond positively. Now Brendon, for once, is actually angry. He isn’t going to let Ryan get away with avoiding emotional vulnerability this time like he normally does on these sort of occasions! Emotions were Brendon's single weapon in their relationship, and he planned on using that. If the bastard tried to shoot him down by aiming words at his current insecurities, Brendon would dodge those bullets and shoot right back to finally open a vein in their friendship.

“Actually, Ryan, in reality, you’re ridiculously talented and just can’t see that because you’re blinded by your massive self-hatred.” Ryan glares silently. _GLARES_. Their replies hold far more meaning between them than any onlooker would understand. If this was physical, Ryan would triumph, but it isn’t; right now, Brendon is winning this war of words. Insulted beyond any effort, the elder is fucking done and decides to retreat replying flatly,

“Sometimes you surprise me, and I remember that you’re actually quite intelligent. Because most of the time I look at you and I think you’re dumb as fuck, but I suppose you’re not so you have no excuse,” closing the conversation conveniently referencing Brendon's initial comment and stalking off in fumes.

“Ryan, Ryan! Come back. _Please_, ” Brendon raises his voice. Shouldn’t Ryan be the one pleading? He came here to apologize! But he sees his mistake,

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have pushed. I know you’re trying, and I just wanted to fix everything and you’re not ready, and _please, p l e a s e_ don’t give up! Let’s just finish the songs, _Ryan?_” The carpet stops receiving footsteps from lanky legs, and Ryan turns around surprising Brendon once _again ('wow, he really is trying')_,

“Fiiine. Just work on the melody already.” And he did, because he had never witnessed Ryan try so hard to actually invest _something_ in their relationship. And all in one day! Surely, these songs would mean so much to Ryan; Brendon would _not_ fuck them up. Falling asleep on his newest member's couch, all he could think of were the promises his voice singing his words inferred.

Later that week, after hearing his lyrics ring continuously through the apartment and their practice space, the poet waits in anticipation for his singer to audibly introduce the songs to Spencer and Brent. Brent’s ears could fall off for all he cares, but Brendon better pour the penmaster's words in _Spencer's_ ears like liquid ambrosia. He's nervous and can’t help but threaten,

“Bren, you better fucking prove to me that your mouth is good for more than one thing,” he breaths out in a low tone. _It’s fine_. Of course Brendon would do well; he’d been practicing all week, and he knows how much this means to Ryan. _To us_. But for _some fucking reason_ his vocalist is singing too high. _It’s just a mistake; he wouldn’t embarrass me on purpose_, he rationalizes. It sounds strained. Perhaps he's nervous too. Soon enough, his voice will lower. _No**no**no. That's too low! Wtf. This is a little excessive_. Brendon continues to sing strangely, provoking raised eyebrows from Spencer. _**He** wrote the damn melody!_ For now, Ryan ignores his suspicions and only glares a couple times, trying to communicate his dissapointment. Correspondingly, the singer seems to return to pitc- _What the fuck! Now he's off time! There's no way that wasn’t on purpose._

“Hold up, hold up! Stop playing. Brendon, it's on the half-note, you dipshit.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Don’t worry. Let’s try again?” he poses, attempting to gain Ryan's sympathy.

“Fine. I’ll believe your ‘_sorry_'s when you stop fucking up.” They continue practice but Brendon doesn’t stop forming errors. In fact, they only exponentially increase. It must be intentional. Only a man born deaf could have made those mistakes, and Brendon is _not_ deaf. _Ah_. Ryan understands now. He’ll be a confidant, he'll have his back, he'll sing for him, and give him a place to sleep, but he wants more than Ryan's trust and effort. _Yeah, well, he never said any of that. I don’t owe him anything! I didn’t agree to anything more. I **trusted** him_. Ryan leaps from his seat and directly asks Brendon.

“look I, I uh, I’m stressed out. You can understan-" he continues to lie. _Nice try. I’m not giving you what you want, Brendon. You'll give up college and leave home for the band, but you want more_.

“No, I cant! I don’t get it, Brendon! ‘_This is our future now_', right? What the hell? I know you can sing this. I know you can sing this with _ease_. There's no fucking excuse! You’re not sick! You know the song, you’re _F I N E!_ Why-”

“Look! _Ryan_,” he interjects, lying once again, “I know I can sing it just fine. _But_ sometimes people stress me the _fuck_ out, and I can’t do my goddamn job! You’re insane, and I’m nervous! You put a lot of pressure on me, Ryan. I cant-"

“So,” cutting the smaller kid off and laughing at Brendon's obvious deception, “just allow me to summarize what you really mean; after fucking up impossibly bad, obviously intentionally, now you’re blaming me then, huh? It’s all my fault. I get it now. I understand.” _Yeah, I know. You’re not getting away with this_.

“NO! No, I-" Before he could finish, he finally delivers some deserved retribution. He knees him, punches him, and kicks him, and kicks him, again and again and again…Until Spencer, who doesn’t understand Brendon's manipulation, lunges at him, Ryan didn’t realize how far he’d gone, although it still doesn’t look _that_ bad to him.

“RYAN!! Ryan! What the hell!?! C'mon man, Brendon can’t die at 18! He has a life to live,” he stated figuratively, trying to joke a little. _Well, I’m done anyways. He’s fine. Geez. I’ve had worse_. Ryan backs off only giving one last verbal kick,

“yeah, a life not worth much, that is,” _And he fucking knows it too, the snake_. He makes sure to look directly at Brendon as the words leave his lips. Apparently, he’s a coward and can’t face the truth, because he's out of the building in mere seconds with Spencer naively following close behind. He knew Brendon would be no different; why was he deceived? Perhaps it's because he underestimated the shining star's ability to mislead in the dark of a night sky. How arrogant to suppose he was above the beguiling of his blinding light! Well, i_t's not happening again._ Brendon is nothing other than what he originally expected. He really shouldn't have been surprised. Well, now he understands. He's _fine_. Everything is _fine_. _Ryan _is_ fine. _

_I'm **fine**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you please critique my writing in the comments? I'm not asking anyone I know to read this; that's embarassing.


	4. Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things cool down in all the wrong ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: This back to Brendon’s perspective (mostly) in the present (2019) looking back at his past (May 2005). His present day thoughts are in italics without apostrophes, his past thoughts in in italics with apostrophes, anyone else’s thoughts are explicitly indicated and are also in apostrophes and italics like: “Ryan thought ‘If only my parents accepted me too…’ “

Clutching an ice pack to his violet temple, his visage was distraught with crinkled eyebrows, dark receding eyes, and the brazen light of a laptop below. He only knew it was Sunday because church bells rang eleven hours earlier. This wasn’t fun. Although he hadn’t slept or eaten, except for some stale Triscuits he found, in the past two days, supposedly _Ryan_ was plenty occupied that weekend. Or at least according to his Livejournal post for April 30, 2005, which indicated he slept with some random girl. That’s just _wonderful_. Always overflowing in energy he never knew what to do with, it was a strange feeling to be so tired, so defeated. Apparently, if anyone could drain him, it was Ryan and his unyielding coldness, refusing to reward him with meaningful approval despite his best efforts to please. It wasn’t that he _didn’t_ find him attractive; It was just _mainly_ that he admired him for his wit, radiating uniqueness, and _talent_. He looked up to Ryan. And even if he didn’t, Ryan's acceptance was a logical goal, since he was the closest the band had to any kind of authority. Basically, everything was shitty right then and mostly because of his failure to find good terms with Ryan. Everything just hurt. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were watering from staring at a screen in the dark for hours, or if he was crying from the pain of the last week's events. Or jealousy. Or anger. Who knows? He was too numb drowning in dissonance to tell. So much had happened, so much he didn’t understand. Cold condensation from the ice pack rolled down his arms mixed with tears. Mounted behind his eyes, pressure pulsed in an agonizing headache. Stress? Ryan's punch? Dehydration? Sleep deprivati- (Bang, bang) ‘_hmm. Should I get up or ignore it?_’ (bang. bang. Bang) ‘_Alright! alright._’ When he stood up, vertigo immediately assaulted him, and he sprinted to the sink to vomit. The pounding of his footsteps, running, and convulsing of emptying his stomach contents, as it turns out, are terrible complements to a migraine. Involuntarily wheezing purely from the sheer pain, he managed to ignore his senses and stumble towards the entrance of his apartment. (BANG! BANG!) ‘_Fuck! Shut up! That hurts!_’

“_Ples_, ‘m c’min, stahp,” he cried out as loud as he could (which wasn’t very loud). Since the bright porch light blinded him as he opened the door, he failed to see who was there. Fortunately, whoever it was carried his weight back into the bearable darkness. Outside of the piercing pressure, his remaining senses were few and included smell. That shirt smelled like Spencer.

“Hey. Shh. Bren, are you okay?” ‘_It’s Spencer!_‘ That was his voice! Only minutes ago, Brendon could form comprehensible thoughts, but now motion replaced everything with pain. 

“Mmno! Ihb'pr’fin. _Rrrr, ahh!_ D' ya no wr th I-bee-pro-fin izzz? Halp.”

“Ibuprofen? Are you saying ibuprofen?” He nodded in response, which hurt of course, but at least it wasn’t the vibration of producing noise. Perhaps they could talk once they adressed the immediate issue. Before this, he never could have imagined the paralyzing migraines his sisters got felt like this. After Spencer returned with water and pills, he gratefully swallowed the medication, and ‘_miraculously_’, he might say, the incapacitating sensation subsided within twenty minutes. However, if Spin would've known it worked that quickly, he probably wouldn’t have put Brendon in his bed and left for the night. He probably wouldn’t have left him to make stupid late night calls. ‘_Goddammit_.’ His best friend was here and gone in five minutes. They weren't _best friends ('Spen has Ryan for_ _that_'), but out of all his _friends_ (he didn't have friends, he just had the band), he was closest to Spencer. Alert and not in pain, what would he do now? Considering his options, a) go to sleep, b) comment on Ryan’s post, c) call Spencer back, and d) _Ooh_, call _Ryan_, he went with the last. Crossing the room, he closed his laptop, turned on the light, and grabbed his phone. ‘_Hm. He might not even answer_.’ In hesitation, he recalled when only a couple months before, Mom was the person he talked to for these situations, for his confusion. What had he done to deserve Ryan's anger? He was a reasonable person; surely there was a reason. He had _just_ barely said they were friends earlier that week! It was only logical to suspect it was his fault. Dizzying guilt, which almost felt like his earlier vertigo, settled inside him as he realized he must’ve done something equivalent to deserve his pain. Something _that_ bad. Now he thought of a nonexistent fifth option: e) call his _mom_. But the long nights of running thoughts and pacing kitchen floors were no longer his mother's domain. _Now, they’re Sarah's, were Sarah's? No. She's still here for me_. He hit dial. The ringing continued monotonously until he began thinking it wouldn’t stop, but a voice cut through entreating, 

“Uh, hello? I don’t really get telemarketers, so who is this?” ‘_Jesus. He still doesn’t have my number?!_’ He almost laughed, really just glad his asocial bandmate picked up at all, but decided against it remembering to explain already,

“It’s me. It’s me, Ryan. You should probably save me as a contact already. I mean c'mon, we’ve been friends for a year!” ‘_Wow. He's just going to completely ignore what happened_,’ Ryan surmised.

“Oh. Brendon. Heey. No, wait; a year? That's it? I don’t normally become friends with people I've only known for a year, Bren, I mean _Brendon_. And I especially don’t save their numbers.” ‘_Seems as though it’s going to take more than a fight to shrug this kid off,_' he observed, preparing to formulate the right words to one-and-done truly break it off.

“Yeah, well, we're _totally_ friends. Besides, ya gotta have my number for the band!” he said in a sweet cheery voice. ‘_God_,’ Ryan groaned in his thoughts; he could almost _hear_ his wide eyes full of faux innocence. Those only worked on him once, and they weren’t ever going to deceive him again. He wasn’t a fool like everyone else.

“I said I _wanted_ to be friends. That’s what I said, _before_. We’re _not_ friends, _Brendon_. And yes, that’s a good idea; I’ll save your number _for the band_,” his words sounded calm and deliberate, barely expressing any emotion, but the agression was wholely clear to Brendon. ‘_Well, I don’t need to have patience either_,’ he decided to skip pleasantries,

“Ry,” ‘_Ha! He hates that_,’ “why are you angry with me?” he pleaded and then became angry himself, “_Hmm?!_ What the _hell_ did I-“ he paused his voice cracking, “did I do? _What did I do?!?_” Catching Ryan off guard because Brendon was not normally _this_ forward, he supposed he’d have to suck it up and improvise.

“Well, if you really need an explanation because it’s not obvious to _you_, then I can provide that…_for a price_, because you’re right; I _am_ angry with you.”

“I-I really just don’t _understand_. I don’t know how you can demand anything from me, _but_ I want this to work, so…_what do you want?_ I’ll do _anything_,” he rambled in a small voice. Ryan considered that maybe Brendon really didn’t understand, maybe he was being transparent, and maybe, _just_ _maybe_ he didn’t intentionally ruin practice. It was the last part he was most curious about, because that inferred that Brendon _wanted_ more, but he _wasn’t_ trying to force Ryan to his whims. And well, Ryan could use that. He could give Brendon what he wanted in exchange for serving _his_ whims. He could turn the tables, put that ‘_anything_’ to use. 

“_Ry-Ryan_?” he spoke, once again in a pleading tone. He imagined how bewildered Brendon must be if he really didn’t understand. Well, Ryan could give him all the answers…_all the **wrong** answers_.

“I’m still here. I don’t have anything particular in mind yet, but you _do_ owe me. You owe me so _fucking_ much. _We_ recruited you in this band. _I_ put you in your position, and you owe us fulfillment of that position, to in the _least_ function. Your bullshit on Friday was not what I'd call functioning, so you owe us to make up for that too. And now you owe me for this explanation, because it’s not _my_ responsibility to make up for _your_ stupidity. As far as Monday goes, you owe me for the effort you pressured me into, for opening up, and for my trust. How could you not understand this? Are you really _that_ stupid? Or are _perfectly aware_ and thought you could walk all over us?! That you could take advantage of us when we _trusted_ you with this role? That you could do that to _Spencer?!_ Either way _you’re goddamn piece of fucking shit_,” he affronted not believing half of it. It was far more dramatic than he felt. ‘_Huh, I really am good at bullshitting. No wonder I always had ‘A's in English_,’ he supposed knowing he most likely successfully ensnared his prey.

_I’m sending you these maledictive words._

_Empowering is this addictive harm._

_Only hear my pretty rhymes,_

_never guess such verbal crimes. _

“I feel really dumb,” Brendon admitted, but he felt more than dumb; he felt incredibly ashamed for who he was as a person. Remorse writhed around his stomach for all the errors which occurred as direct results of _who he was_. Because, ‘_fuck. Ryan's making sense_.’ Brendon slid down from his sitting position to lay on the bed and felt small as the light illuminated the perimeters of his bedroom. Chest rising and falling despondently, he exhaled responding,

“I'm sorry. I’m _so_ sorry, but nobody's perfect, _right?_” the guilted one said desiring affirmation that he was only as flawed as everyone else and continued, “I mean, Monday was an apology because you’re not perfect either,”

“Yeah, Monday was me saying ‘_sorry_' for my own fuck ups, so I guess you don’t owe me for that, _specifically_. But there are standards, Brendon. Everyone has their shit, but there are still expectations we have to achieve,” ‘_might as well throw an insult in for added measure_,’ he calculated, “It’s just common sense. _Most_ people understand this. So you owe me for your mistakes too. And friends, _hm_, you mentioned that earlier, let me be clear: I do not want to be your friend. If we’re friends, you’re getting something you want, for which, of course, is yet another thing you’ll owe me for. Those are the terms I agree to.” ‘_Well, fuck. Was Ryan a lawyer in a previous life?_’ Brendon wanted to disagree because his intuition was telling him this was wrong. Apparently, gut feelings weren’t something he could trust anymore because when he thought about, he couldn’t argue with Ryan. After this week, Brendon would definitely be trusting himself less.

“Ok. That makes sense,” he sighed, “I’m going to continue buying orange juice, and celery, and bagels, and you can come over whenever you want, because I _do_ want to be friends. I’ll keep my debts in mind, and I’m sorry. I’ll say it a million times. _I’m sorry, Ryan,_” he voiced so small it must have come through a throat closing up from crying, “Just tell me what you want from me, anytime, and it’s yours.” Ryan couldn’t help but laugh; he beat the shit out of Brendon, and now he had him apologizing. It was impressive, but the kid on the other line only interpreted his laughter as the approval he yearned for. It was too perfect; he _was_ completely ignorant after all!

“Thank goodness. If you still were still angry, I probably would’ve lost my mind.”

“Sure Bren, sure,” he cackled more.

“You called me Bren! You’ve been refusing this whole time,” his pitch pierced through the line with lucid elation before he finished with sickeningly sweet sincerity, “Hey Ryan, thank you for giving me a chance. I guess I owe you for that too. It really means the world to me.” The poet naturally possessed a tolerance for sappy lovesick words, but it didn’t prepare him for the maple syrup tone that was just poured down his ears.

“Yeah, _of course_,” _‘As if! I’ve been nothing but stubborn! Ha!,_’ he humored, “Look, I'm sorry I exploded before. Let's try again. Why don’t we start with where I’m going to sleep tonight. I met some random girl, and I’ve been crashing at her place since Friday to avoid going home, because I figured I wasn’t welcome back at your place. I quit college, Bren; I really don’t want to go home,” he guilts him further.

“Oh my god. Of course, Ryan. You don’t have to go home right now. That makes sense. I’m so sorry. That explains your post.”

“Have you been keeping tabs on me? What are you jealous, Bren?” he said teasingly.

“Maybe. Yes. I’m jealous. Do you have your car? I’m assuming you have your car, but I can give you a ride if you don’t."

“I’m actually only like two miles away which would take me like thirty minutes to walk.”

“Thirty minutes! Yeah, hell no. Give me ‘n address ‘n I’ll be right over.”

“It’s almost midnight! You can go to bed. It’s fine.”

“Yeah exactly, _Ross_. I don’t wanna wait half an hour staying up just so I can let you in the front door. It’s actually more of a bother for me if you walk.”

“Alright. You know those apartment buildings across from the Dairy Queen on Summerlin?”

“Oh yeah, the ones with the orange balconies?”

“I’m there.”

\- - - 

All members of the band mutually agreed that this week was better than last week. Last week was a train wreck; this week Pete Wentz wanted an update. Informing them that if they wanted to go on the Nintendo Fusion Tour in September, they had to release an album with the label before the first tour date. This was obvious, but their inexperience and the general urgency necessitated the pressure to be expedient. Fortunately, his loud joviality and copious swearing countered their fear with hope, and was a welcomed but foreign change to the grim conflicts of the previous seven days. As they clustered back together in their practice space, it seemed as though ages had passed over the weekend. Their afternoon gathering felt unnervingly pacified to be a sequential meeting to Ryan’s Friday explosion. ‘_Something’s missing_’ the percussionist puzzled. Supremely suspicious, Spencer eyed Brendon and Ryan the entire time the four Skyped the proud man. Unaware, grinning endearingly, and speaking with an almost paternal color, he was like their fairy godfather, or guardian angel, or something of the sort. So really, the drummer didn’t have a choice. He’d just have to ask them later, when their boss _Pete motherfucking Wentz_ wasn’t making fun of Brendon for staying up the entire night he drove all the way to California to meet. Supposedly, he was excited because his parents weren’t there to tell him to go to bed, and he was a seventeen year old _adorable_ dork. The eighteen year old (since three weeks ago) dork just shook his head at the description. After nearly an hour of glitching video, Pete ‘_don't call me Mr. Wentz_’ Wentz approved of their plan to go to SOMD! Studios in College Park, Maryland in a month, and promised the boys that the label executives agreed on a humble budget of eleven-thousand to record. Assuring them that it was indeed a feeble amount, because they didn’t understand a damn thing about the cost of producing albums, he wished them good luck and ended the call. Finally, Spencer could find out _what the fuck_ was going on. But it seemed as though Ryan and Brendon had other ideas… like not talking.

Standing up from the generic navy plastic scholastic chair, Brendon closed his laptop and began packing his things. ‘_Put away the computer, ok, but everything? What?_’ Spencer remarked.

“Hey! Hey. What are you doing? You’re leaving?” he barked sounding more alarmed than usual thanks to the barren room’s small echoing size. The kid who only shut up if he was sorry for _something_ mumbled sheepishly,

“Oh. I didn’t know we were going to practice today. I would stay, I really would, but I already made plans.” His guilt, justly due or not, was palpable in their ears. Apparently Brent also had plans, but he _didn’t_ feel guilty about them.

“We’re playing today? I wasn’t told, so I’m not sticking around. Are you going to Michael's party Brendon? ‘Cause that's where I’m going.” Brendon nodded ‘_no_’ in response even though the whole jazz class was invited.

“Normally I’d be angry, but Brent’s right. We didn’t make any plans," Ryan concurred as his bassist left the room, not bothering to discuss any further. Brent never seemed to be around. That would have to change as the following months demanded more from each of them, Ryan made sure to mentally mark.

“No, I know. Actually, I wanted to talk to you Brendon,” Spence sent a pointer finger to his best friend, “And you too.” Brendon only responded with apologetic sad eyes, but _Ryan’s_ eyes widened under narrowed eyebrows as if to say ‘_no fucking way, Spin_'. The middle man did a double-take fighting his initial instincts to berate Ryan and confronted the boy zipping his bag first,

“When I came over yesterday, you looked like absolute shit, B,” Brendon's lips pulled into a thin line, “No, I didn’t mean it like that, obviously. I meant Friday didn’t just happen in my mind. You were, are?, hurt, and you two are acting like nothing happened. Do you guys just like ignoring problems?! _Is that what this is?_ What the _hell_, guys?” Ryan remained silent.

“No, no, no. We talked yesterday and worked things out. Everything’s fine now,” Brendon explained as if it was that simple. Maybe it was to him, in which case, Spencer didn’t even know where to start to break down that delusion. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he stood in front of Spencer and Ryan like he was waiting for permission to leave. The only reasonable person in the room decided he'd contend with Brendon another time.

“Alright. Well, at least tell me what those ‘_plans_’ you’re ditching us for are! We're not good enough for ya anymore, huh?!” he humored, yet the parting boy's hands flew out defensively as he shook his head ‘_no_’ with force and worried eyebrows. He rocketed with words flying a mile a minute,

“I’d love to stay! I really would, believe me. But ‘_Mutual_' is the only way I can see my family right now. I’m sure they’d let me in if I just showed up, but it’d be awkward, and I wanna do things on their terms because I’m the one who fucked up. I should’ve been more respectful. I shouldn’t’ve dumped it all on their laps at once. I was just so angry. And I didn’t drop out, but I’m not passing either. And I’m on thin ice, barely getting back in their good books. And I know said ‘_fuck the LDS church_' before, but that was when I was emotional, and I feel bad for judging Kaylee so much last year, because I acted worse than her this year. I made the same mistake, and that’s why I'm alone now. _I feel so alone_. And it’s not that you guys aren’t enough, I just miss them. I was just so angry, and I wasn’t thi-“

“HEY! Hey, hey, hey. Slow down, calm down, Brendon. I was just joking. Geez. Of course you can do stuff outside of this stupid band. You can do whatever you want,”

“Because we didn’t make plans," Ryan interrupted,

“Uh, yeah. And do really think we’d be angry at you for wanting to _spend time with your family?_ C'mon, man. Honestly Brendon, sometimes you’re fucking insane. Also what’s ‘_mutual_’, and who’s Kaylee?” Spencer finished cheerily. Shoulders falling from their tense state, the boy finally calmed down. He slumped in his posture, sighed in relief and said,

“It-” he smiled sincerely, “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna go. Thanks guys. Bye.” 

“Yeah, of course. Bye Brendon. See ya Friday!” Ryan actually said his parting salutations for once,

“Bye, _Bren_.” The boy smirked as he walked out the door.

“So…”

“Oh my God Spence, leave it. I fixed it. Everything’s fine.”

“Look, I’ll back off! I won’t hammer you, alright Ryan? Just tell me what happened, and I’’ll ‘_leave it_’.” On the subject of the chess game he was playing with Brendon, he gave his best friend what he wanted in mental exchange for the questions he would ask Spence eventually. Twisting things _just a little_, the careful word-carver told him that they both felt guilty, apologized, and came to understand each other's reasoning.

_Just a humble carpenter, but he’s carving forbidden trees._

_Most are honest wood-carvers, but he’s lying through his teeth._

_Words are secure green arbors, a most sacred wood to leave._

_Kin rest in shade of sweet words, but poisoning is his speech._

_See a simple wood-carver, a word-carver underneath._

‘_I could never be that honest carpenter,_’ he remembered a Grimm's fairy-tale, or Aesop fable, or _whatever the fuck_ that character was from his childhood. So he continued to be a deceptive bastard and went into further detail about his paranoia and subsequential eruption on Friday. He mentioned that Brendon ‘_took responsibility_’ because the kid's inseure. Basically, his explanation was vague enough to dismiss any future details briefly revealed as they fit into the puzzle he painted. His not-lying but still misleading cherry-picking facts regained the trust of the only person he cared about as he ironically thought Ryan was finally being honest. It was nice, but he didn’t miss it. It was _fine_ that it wasn’t real. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t. _He missed it_. ‘_I miss Spencer_,’ he admitted. 

After weeks of distance, he felt both closer and further to Spencer than ever before. As far as Ryan was concerned, there were two worlds: the one where people trusted one another, helped one another, and _loved_ one another, and the real one where people _pretended_ to selflessly help and love each other in exchange for provisions of their own _selfish_ needs. The reality of relationships was business, economics, trade, deals, and a complicated game in which one had to cheat people out of what they thought they were paying for before they did the same to you. And he knew, at least now, both Spencer and Brendon lived in the naïve dream world, but he had to secure his hooks into who he could find before someone else did, or before they realized he was from the real world, or they woke up and did the same. Maybe it wasn’t fair, given that they didn’t know the kid they called their ‘_friend_’ was a _fucking psychopath_, but he'd be alone otherwise. 

_I wish I could say I’m a good Christian,_

_And that I have faith in my redemption._

_Damn_ (literally damned) _right_ there was no savior to forgive the boy who condemned himself to Hell, spending years digging a chasm too steep to climb out. He'd would only have someone to call family (Spencer), and make use of that desperate piece of shit (Brendon) if he could lie. Because no one could love him; he was out of his godamn mind. Maybe he’d write a song about that one day. And _wow_, he really hated Brendon. But that shouldn’t have been a surprise, ‘_I’m from Nevada; of course, I hate the sun_.’ Besides, a deal was still a deal, ‘_I'm getting what I want. He's getting what he wants. It’s mutual,_’ Ryan contemplated on last night.

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer intruded his thoughts.

“I’ve been getting that question lately.”

“Oh, it’s just that you kinda trailed off and stopped talking, like you always do.”

“Well, I guess if you know me so well, then you should know I would consider my private thoughts none of your Goddamn business, _like I always do._”

“Alright. _Jesus Christ, Ryan_. You’re touchy,” he said in that particular fraternal way and then punched his arm lightly. He'd only been startled before, so Spencer easily broke him into a laugh. Falling into familiar habits, the friends left the practice space for a ‘_Smith's movie night_'. 


	5. Yes, Together, But Not Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon goes to Mutual in an attempt to reconcile with his family. Warning for inferred suicidal thoughts and underage off screen drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTE: In the first scene, this is in Brendon’s mother's perspective in the past (early May 2005) in the present tense. Her thoughts are in italics without apostrophes, Brendon's past thoughts in in italics with apostrophes, anyone else’s thoughts are explicitly indicated and are also in apostrophes and italics. In the last scene, it's in Ryan's perspective, also in the present tense, with the same formatting for thoughts as Brendon's Mother's perspective. There is a brief scene in the middle in Brendon's perspective, in past tense.

_Monday, May 2nd, 2005_

“Are you _sure_ he's coming, Kyla?” the matriarch of the Urie household asks about her dear youngest son as she slides a pan of orange pinwheels into the oven. The year hasn’t yet entered the busy holiday season, _heck_, it's summer for goodness’ sake, but shared nostalgia unites families like gravity. Only God truely knows how much they need to fall together again.

“Yes, _Mom_. Don’t worry he just texted me. He's on his way. Stop worrying already,” the girl assures her with apparent annoyance.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me young lady! And don’t you dare give me orders. I have every right to worry about my baby boy when he's out in the world all alone,” she snaps back in authority. Wearing an apron dusted white, her maternal instincts shine through enforcing her words and anger. Kyla bows her head remembering the underlying seriousness of this reunion.

“Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry,” she amends, but her brother clearly doesn’t mind keeping up the antics as he chimes,

“Ya know, Brendon would roll his eyes if he heard you call him your _‘baby boy’_. He’s _‘Mr. Independent’_ now!” snickering as he skips away. Although she knows Mason trusts his little brother and the Lord, thus taking the situation lightly, Mrs. Urie thinks her own anxiety is just being _gosh-darn_ realistic and in no way an abandonment of faith. With a grandchild on the way, a daughter on the other side of the world, and two children in college, her teenage highschooler son is too young to be living on his own. After four kids, she knows what it looks like when her offsping transition into adulthood, and Bren is _not_ an adult. Because he was her last and therefore babied his whole life, he’s irresponsible, naïve, unable to focus, nevermind capable of holding down two jobs, going to school, and paying bills! He isn’t ready for life. Is he still passing his classes? She’d have to call Palo Verde. What kind of people live near him in the other apartments? Are they Christian? Are they even _good_ people? Are they _criminals_? _Are they drug addicts?! Oh God. Flip; I just used the Lord's name in vain_. Does he ever walk alone outside at night? _**Is he safe?!** Is he feeding himself?!?!_ (Deeeng, dahhhng) Mason leaps from the couch to the ringing doorbell. She doubts he is, or at least well, as the kid shuffles in appearing visibly thinner.

“Hi, Mason" he struggles to wheeze out while his brother lovingly squeezes the air out of him, “_Hi Mom_,” he mumbles sadly, audibly exhausted and guilty. _Gosh flippin’ darn-it!_ If that boy hadn’t run out her grasp to who knows where in some no doubt bad neighborhood, she'd be able to take proper care of her son! It isn’t that she’s angry, it’s just that… _ok;_ she’s a _little_ frustrated. 

“Hey, Bubba'sub,” she wrangles him out of Mason’s arms and gently holds him in hers. Petting his hair and rubbing his back, she doesn’t notice the fading bruise on his jaw until after she pulls him away to look in his fatigued eyes. And she never knows these hugs hurt his abdomen, that there are bruises there too. There's so much in his life she isn’t a part of anymore. So much she no longer helps him understand and overcome. Whether it was bullying or anxiety, _she was always there_. Because _one step at a time_, and because she hasn’t seen her son in two months, she doesn’t chide him for getting into a fight. After finishing salutations carefully avoiding the unspoken changes, they don’t bother opening this week’s scriptures and opt to just discuss the topic. They exchange opinions on _temperance_, unnatural pauses each time someone uses _God_ as a reason. _Someone here no longer has faith_. He’s so lost, and it's _his_ fault, and it’s _her_ fault; _where had it all gone wrong?_

Maybe it’s not as wrong as she thinks. Maybe she’s just a little paranoid. She'll make him smile again. He isn't smiling enough, at all. Earlier kitchen ridden for a couple hours, she asks as the timer beeps obnoxiously,

“Would you like some pinnies, Bubs? That'll be them.” Hesitating to answer, she lets him have a few seconds to think of a response by obeying the oven’s loud beckoning. 

“So?” she asks as she returns. “They’ll need to cool of course.” Trying to sound hopeful if not a bit pleading, she's dissapointed when the boy looks unenthused and ashamed. _Ashamed_. _Why on God's Earth does he feel guilty?_ But he answers soon enough,

“Yeh, maybe, like when the others get here.” As Kyla's lips pull downward in a line, the awkward _‘uhhh'_ clear, he persists. 

“Are they late?” he asks hesitantly.

“It’s just us this week,” Mason, the least insecure answers.

“Oh,” he looks down and picks at the skin around his nails, “I don’t really have an apetite.” There’s blood on his fingers now.

Until he mentions the oncoming leave to Maryland, they continue on subject for as long as they can to avoid silence which might express _‘there’s nothing left to say that won’t end in tears.’_ And apparently tears it is, because silence is death, it’s the end, its giving up, and they still _care_. 

“Wait stop! What are talking about?! _Hold on,_” his twenty-one year old brother gets his attention, “Brenny, Honey, my Darling_, why did you say you asked you landlord to absolve your lease?_ Are you moving?” He thinks it’s a simple question, and that Brendon needs to slow down sometimes, but the boy's flushing red.

“You guys don’t… know?” _‘They don’t know!’_ He’s going to have to tell them something _kinda_ big. It isn’t that big of a deal, but it raises some questions he doesn’t like. _‘How don’t they know? Didn’t Talmage tell Dad? Does this mean Dad no longer asks about me?’_ Quirking their lips and raising their eyebrows, he's guessing he's right.

“I’m moving to Maryland for a few months to record an album, ya know, _with the band,_” he deadpans, guaging their reactions. Of course, his mother's reaction is the most immediate.

“No, we don’t know! _Brendon!_ Why didn’t you tell us?! You may have left, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to know these things! What kind of mother do you think I am?!?!”

“Well, I told Talmage! _I_-I don’t understand; that was nearly a week ago. I thought you knew, but didn’t care, so you didn’t contact me.” The silence returns, and it’s painful, no longer broken even by a beeping timer. Kyla whispers what no one else dares to, 

“Dad doesn’t ask about you anymore.” _There it was_. He was right. When she notices he's shivering, the girl drapes her lavender jacket on his shoulders as if to soften the blow. He puts it on to be nice, but he's not cold, he's blocking a leak in a dam holding back catyclismic panic. It's almost inaudible, barely a whisper,

“Why am I not enough?”

“_Dear_, you are. Don't be ridiculous," she asks the about the real cause of their collective pain, _well_, at least in her mind, unlike her delusional son, "_Why'd you leave?_” He thinks it’s pretty obvious why; the thought _‘Because…answer my first question’_ flashing through his mind. He doesn’t answer. _‘They know.’_ The silence screams what they refuse to voice. _But that's not how it is!_ she yells back in her thoughts at the speechless room. She just wants him to be all that he can be, the happiest he can be! He deserves self-fulfillment like everyone else. Without college, he won’t have a career, a proper living. He won’t be able to support a family. And salvation! _He's so lost._ She's losing him. _He's running away._

_“Bre-ndon!”_ her voice cracks and she covers her mouth. She looks down. She's crying. They all look down. Blinking furiously, he takes off the jacket and announces his exit. As their mother leaves their living room to weep in private, Brendon slams the front door. It's then when it’s too late that she remembers she was going to pack some pinwheels for him take… _home_; she cries harder in her solitude, in her house unfilled by his laughter, or singing, yelling, or crying, or anyone's at the moment (she's trying to be quiet).

Left on their own, the remaining siblings don’t talk. Mason’s so confused. In his brother's mind, they won’t accept him because of who he is. In his mother's mind, her child is _hurting himself_. In Mason’s mind,… he doesn’t know anymore. Kyla doesn’t know either. Even as they hear his car start and pull out of the driveway, the only sounds inside are the moving purple fabric between the girl’s hands and muffled sobs, rooms away. She stands only to expediently leave the room as well, bringing the jacket with her. It feels so empty- the cloth, the room.

\- - - 

“Ryan!” there was no reply, “Are you here?” He wasn’t. Immediately, he slid off the polo as he strutted towards the bedroom._ ‘Ugh!’_ He removed his belt, his _Sunday_ belt. After shaking them off his foot and stomping out of the basic khakis, his hands flew to his closet searching to replace them with something à la mode. _‘Do you hate it when I wear girls’ clothing? Well, I'm drinking tonight too.’_ He got these jeans from _Express_. Dropping his knees to bottom of the closet, he hated that his clothes were folded in piles on the floor, no longer in proper drawers; but at least he was _free_. He chose a tight red shirt.

“Hey, Brendon! ‘Sup man?"

“Are you still going to that party?”

“Yeah, but I’m just hangin’ out with a couple dudes before we leave. Change your mind?”

“Yeah. Can you pick me up?”

“Sure, no problem.”

\- - -

The last thing Ryan remembers was the t-rex roaring as the banner to the park floated down. 

“Hey, are you awake? The movie’s over.”

“_Hm?_”

“Are you staying for the night?” 

_I wanna know why I won. I wanna know why he gave in_ he thinks of Brendon at home. Is he going home? No. _Home? _

“No. Goodnight, Spin.” Shoes. Keys. He hugs the only person he ever hugs in the Smith doorway.

_He was confused, and he trusted my judgement. I gave him something he wanted, but he’ll keep pleasing for more._ Giving rhythm to his thoughts, the streetlights flash a low orange across his vision every five seconds. _**Keep** him confused. Don’t ever let him be content. Be unpredictable so he always self monitors. So he doubts everything. But reward him sometimes. Punish him sometimes. Give him a half-pattern, an illusion of progress. Keep him scared. Hurt him until he gives up fighting. But never kill his hope. His dreams. Keep him trying_. He should really write down at least the basic ideas, but he’s too tired. Just as he’s plopping down on the cheap ‘_couch_' (four chairs duct-taped together, pillows tied down, and many blankets draped over), he hears loud thumps and a voice in the stairwell. It sounded chaotic like multiple heavy objects bounced down. Nearly falling asleep, he was going to ignore it, but he hears _crying?_ Nonetheless getting up _goddammit_, he doesn’t rise quickly, and he groans too. Shoes? No. As he stumbles towards the door, the sounds become more clearly those of someone he knows. Although he wants to turn around as he smells a familiar smell, he figured it’s _Brendon_, and the kid is harmless. In fact, he’s probably more benign when he’s drunk, more vulnerable, more of a danger to himself than anyone else. 

“Duh ya beleev in reshempdion, Ry? Huh? Wut if sum peepuhl are jus bad? Hmm?” he laughs as he slurs, and normally Ryan would agree, laugh at life as well, but dark thoughts are unnerving coming from a ray of sunshine.

“Well, I don-" he stops short as the kid doubles over to the other side of the stairwell, vomit shooting onto the roach ridden concrete. The repulsive scene before him is an appropriate context to _Brendon_ becoming a cynic, he decides. Otherwise, he might pinch his skin. Tonight, he's visiting Hell, and that was the second level down. To his surprise, Brendon starts laughing again, low and insincere at first, but soon becoming maniacal. They’re descending deeper into the nightmare. Following the white rabbit, Ryan wants to know why it's running; what demons pursue it? They'll go inside. He'll gently poke and prod until the answers leak out the fissures of the fractured man before him. When he puts a hand on his back, Brendon instantly stills under his touch, immediately silent. It's disconcerting, but he jumps backwards when Brendon whips around to yell,

“Don’t touch me! Like you give damn, _please_,” sarcasm clear in his tone. Although he's clearly having difficulty just standing, wavering in place, he puts in the effort to cross his arms and cock his hips to the side. It's more sass than Ryan's ever seen from Brendon. Sobering up a bit, he says “it’s all gonna go to shit. It’s already shit. I don’t have anyone anymore. Soon enough, they’ll truely hate me. And who are you? You don’t care. The band? They’re all your friends. Pete?” he laughs some more, “He must find us so fucking hilarious. The greatest joke he's ever made. Even I find find it funny. But hey, what are ya gonna do? Gotta find a laugh somewhere. I thought I could be a musician!” he laughs _again_, “Well, I’m tired now. It's not funny anymore. _I_-I tried.” Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as Ryan initially assumed, or maybe some pent up anger fueled him, given his coherency. Maybe he had been thinking about these things for a long time. Turning and stumbling towards the door, he attempts to open it, but he can’t seem to get a proper grip and rotate the handle. Opening their door is a bit like opening a pill bottle, with the built in child safety locks they always have, at least now in its dysfunctional state. They need to get it fixed. Or replaced. _Alright_, he's seen enough,

“Here, Brendon, just let me. Move!” Squeezing in the space between the door frame and the body beside him, he shoves Brendon aside with his shoulder and opens the entrance himself. As they walk deeper into their (_home?_), Ryan continually reaches out to steady or catch him, and each time Brendon insists angrily that ‘_ ’m fine’ _or_ ‘I duneed help’_. It’s only when they reach the bedroom (there's only one) that he thinks about what their destination should be at all. He supposes this makes sense. Turning on the hallway light, he leads them into the darkness of the room just lit enough through the door to see. After he puts Brendon on the mattress on the floor, or more like allows him to fall, the sleepy kid mumbles ‘_ ’m fine’_ again, to which Ryan ignores and says “I’m gonna get you water,” and leaves. Seconds ticking by silently as the water rises up the cup and his feet hit the carpet, Ryan hopes Brendon stays awake long enough to talk. “Here. Drink this," he hands over the cylindrical plastic and allows the other to inefficiently sit up by himself. “Why do you think you're alone?"

“ ’cuz m' family hates me. And you hate me. And I have no friends,” the words slide off his tongue like they had been ricocheting in his mind long enough to intelligibly fall down out his mouth, even intoxicated. Ryan takes the cup and puts it on the carpet, and Brendon lays down on his back. _Ok. That actually makes sense. Wait, but I-_

“I thought we agreed to be friends."

“Yur not my friend. You hate me.” _True. Fair enough. He'd never admit that sober. But that's just me,-_

“What about Spencer? Spencer likes you,” he leans in as he speaks, a hand on Brendon's shoulder, almost whispering, in a faux sweet tone. It feels foreign in his throat, as if he's talking to child or just… _cares_. Caring is certainly foreign to Ryan. 

“You guys are desperate. That's why Brent ask’d me to the basement that time. Yuh care. Yur jus desperate.” Ryan almost laughs; normally Brendon would catch the fact that he never denied that he hated him. Right now, he seems content to accept the silent affirmation and move forward in the conversation. Speaking of which, Ryan does not understand Brendon’s response. _Desperate for what? What does that have to do with being his friend? Does he think we're desperate for… friends?_

“I'm not following,” which is important, given it’s the only reason he's in Wonderland at all. 

“Hm?” Brendon hummed with his eyes closed as he raised his eyebrows in question. Perhaps he should’ve been more specific.

“What do you mean _‘That's why Brent asked me to the basement that time'_ ?”

“The audishin, uv course,” he looks right at Ryan as if it's obvious what he means, “It’s ezer to be frens. The album. Muhbe wun day we'll ruhlly be frens. But… ‘m jus sad, too sad.” _In a band, it's easier to be friends than not? Why would we be desperate for friends, then? Are we desperate for the… band? _

“I’m really confused now. Are you saying that we're only friends with you because we need you in Panic?”

“Brent wud'v ask’d anywun. You wud'v taken anywun.” _Ah_. There it is. Ok. He found the white rabbit again.

“Don't you have other friends?” He doesn’t ask about his family.

“D’yuh think Hell is real?” Taking a sharp left turn, he doesn’t know if Brendon is intentionally switching subjects or if-

“Wow. You’re more random drunk than normally."

“D'yuh think it’s just dirt win sumwun kills themself?” _Woah. Very random_. It’s like he's only seeing a few cars while the rest of Brendon's thought train remains invisible, unspoken. The conversation disintegrating, he knows they're nearing the end of their descending journey. 

“You're suicidal?” he questions directly, jumping straight to the point. Imagining how Spencer would ask, Ryan knows he’d probably say something like _‘Brendon, why are you saying these things?’_ or _‘You know, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here. Ok?’_ He’d say something indirect and caring, the unspoken question there in suggesting that something's wrong, or he needs help. Well, Ryan doesn’t care and just wants answers. 

“Dirt.” _Alright, Roll the credits!_ Apparently it doesn’t matter how reasonable and straightforward Ryan is being when the queen declares_ ‘Off with his head!’_ This conversation is six feet under.

“Ok, Brendon,” Ryan chuckles, “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.” As he picks up the empty plastic cup, he glances at Brendon one more time, who appears to be asleep. Like a certain thirteenth century poet emerging on the bottom of the world, he exits the darkness of the bedroom and turns off the hallway light seeing a new side of Brendon. He wonders how much Brendon will remember; maybe he’ll think it was all a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for my uploading schedule. Because I never intended to write this for an audience and only for myself, but I figured I might as well let other's enjoy it if they want, I didn't plan well enough to consistently post with everything else going on in my life. I do plan on finishing this, but I have no idea when that would be. I'm sorry.


	6. And Then Alone Again: Part I (Brendon is Fine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon has a shitty next three weeks after conluding that he can't amend the conflict with his family, and that he has no real friends. This chapter is short scene of dialalogue between him and a concerned teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therapy that doesn't work.

_Wednesday, May 25th, 2005_

Brendon grew up in a family seven, and he was close with all them. He was the glue between his four siblings and parents. The Uries were close to their large extended family, even if they lived a state east in Utah. He knew everyone in his ward. He was friends with every other Mormon kid, in his ward or not, at school. And every year, he was friends with almost everyone in his grade. Since he switched schools to Palo Verde junior year, it was difficult to keep in touch with all of his old friends. But at least they lived close by, and he continued to see a lot of them at church, mutual, and ward activities. And then he joined the band. He got another job at the smoothie hut to rent a practice space for the four of them. Between two jobs (three, if you count regularly delivering weed), school, and Panic, suddenly he didn’t have time to hang out with his old friends, or to make new ones. He still saw some of them at church. At least until he stopped going…which didn’t please his parents. His dad stopped talking to him. Matt and Kara didn’t live in the house anymore, but he thinks things only became so awkward with Mason and Kyla because they didn’t know where they stood in the conflict. He started avoiding them the most one can while living in the same house, almost only seeing them at dinner. The evening meals became nearly silent except when a fight broke out between him and his parents. He decided he didn’t want to live in the same house anymore. He moved out. He didn’t have his old friends. He didn’t have his friends from church. He didn’t have any new friends. He didn’t talk to his family anymore. Brent was definitely not his friend. Spencer was nice. Ryan hated him. He never felt more alone in his life. 

If only to avoid a notification to his parents, he went school the next day despite feeling a bit like he was dying. Yes, he was hungover, but _also_… Since remembering the smell of orange pinwheels, something his mother ironically baked to force some kind of merriment, the feeling hadn’t faded. That smell. It was peace, love, forgiveness, redemption… _That fucking smell_. A leak in the damn holding his sanity together, the memories wouldn’t stop flowing in his failing efforts to patch the fracture. Although he didn’t recall what the hell he said to Ryan the night before, he was pretty sure it was something to do with the way he felt like he was dying then, and now, the way he knew he would continue to feel until it actually killed him. He didn’t do well that Tuesday. He didn’t do well for the next week. They sent a notification to his parents. 

“Excuse me, Brendon _dear_? Can you stay for bit after class? I'll write a note to your next teacher,” Mrs. Martin asked, although it was really an order, not a question. Pushing up her reading glass --which had a silver chain hanging around the back of her head so one could wear them like a _necklace(?)_\--, she spoke with a maternal tone and a tired expression of pity in her eyes. The perfect stereotype of both an English teacher and a grandmother, the passive aggressive woman enforced rules with stern looks and ‘_talks_’, always had extra cough drops, and wore a dizzying noxious perfume that clothes from their local Goodwill always smelled of for some reason. Because she didn’t perform with the forced neutral professionalism which skipped past all the caring bullshit and just got the job done, most kids found her aggravating. Given that neither students nor teachers really wanted to be in this hell-hole, why put on faux-show of _caring_ when no one really cares, most people figured. But she was different; she really did _care_. And that's why she was Brendon's favorite teacher (besides Mr. Matta, of course). So even though she was easy to make fun of, which all British Literature students did, she put up with _Brendon_ because she _cared_; really, she deserved some kind of an award gilded in praise.

After class ended, he readily followed Mrs. Martin's request because he kind of wanted someone to ask him if he was ok. He wanted someone to tell him all the answers. Besides, he hated pre-calculus, which he was going have to beg his teacher to pass him in as well as several other classes to graduate. Pulling a blue plastic school chair to her desk, he sat down as all the other students filed out to the room empty for her prep-hour.

She took a deep breath before speaking calmly, “Brendon, I’ve noticed, as well as other teachers, that you’ve seemed to be struggling in the past few weeks…” ‘_Ya think?_’ he thought impatiently, but ultimately he knew it was just her style to skirt aroud a subject before delicately addressing it. And ‘_wow_’, he was teacher lunchroom gossip now. He supposed he probably shouldn't have been surprised because he _really was struggling_. Since _that_ Monday, it had been a blurry three weeks of barely surviving an imprisoning cycle spinning on.

_Pull yourself to consciousness, try to finish the homework due that day, go to school, <strike>fall asleep **only** in the least important classes,</strike> no you only have two, and Wow, I'm so glad I only have two classes, bum some food off Brent, **don’t** have a breakdown, put on your Tropical Smothie HutTM _ _apron, sing old 80's classics for older upperclass women and earn that tip, <strike>sneak a smoothie for yourself,</strike> no--Tom will tell the manager, maybe practice or write with the band, deliver weed all over the Vegas valley, try to do some more homework, ignore Ryan lounging around the apartment, pay the bills, do the laundry, work your job under a land surveying company on the weekends and some afternoon weekdays, <strike>tell Talmage abo</strike>-, no-- what's the point?, get trashed whenever possible (probably at a party with Brent), go to your goddamn rehab classes ‘cause you got caught with weed like an idiot, don’t look in the mirror, blah, blah, yada nada yachts noughta etc., …_

“I assume your parents are aware of your recent difficulties,” she stated as if it was a given -because normally it was- leading into her point. But he stopped her. 

“I know they were sent a notification about my attendance and grades like two weeks ago. Other than that I don’t think…well, it’s just that, they’re not really involved. No, no, not like that. Well, maybe. I dunno if they wanna know. I don't _if_…if they care anymore,” he rambled until he audibly decided he couldn’t assume if they wanted to be ‘involved’ or not. Out of breath in his nerves, he watched, guarded, while her eyes flicked about and her eyebrows folded downwards. The short few seconds stretched by painfully slow as she opened her mouth timidly a couple times about to speak but thinking better of it. Finally, she decided on,

“Do you have reasons to believe they wouldn’t care? Please elaborate.”

“This past year was fighting and ignoring each other. _I_-I’m just not who they want me to be, and I think we finally agree that's not going to change. And school… I planned on doing something that wouldn’t require good grades. So I haven’t tried my best.”

“I see. You think they’ve accepted the future you’ve chosen for yourself. But I don’t see what career, or plans you conceived, wouldn’t in the least benefit from graduating highschool. Like I mentioned earlier, other teachers have confirmed that you won’t be able to graduate unless you pass your finals this week. And Brendon, it’s evident to me that you’re struggling with more than just grades, and that is what I was mainly referring to. Have you considered talking to the school counselor?”

“I don’t see how talking to someone could help me. Plus, it’s the last week; what's the point now?”

“Are you _giving up?_” she asked incredulously, even though, really, _there was no point._

“I suppose I plan on passing my finals.”

“I’m glad to hear so, but I don’t want you to walk out of this school without knowing-" she paused, “I just want that you’ll to be ok.” He wanted to say ‘_Of course I’ll be okay. I'm gonna write an album, tour the U.S., make a shit ton of money, and become a famous musician_. _I have it all worked out,’_ but that was his plan eight months ago. And he didn’t so much as plan, as he did dive headfirst into reckless choices with severe consequences. When he had a safety net to fall back on for the big important things, this personality trait wasn’t a life-wrecking hazard, but now he was risking everything. And given his track record, he probably wasn’t a safe bet. He couldn’t tell her he'd be okay. He couldn’t even _guess_ if he’d be fine. In fact, he was probably heading towards a grand finale of completely _fucked_, so he lied.

“I'm already signed to a contract for a job that will make me decent or possibly even great money, so even if the company doesn’t continue to sign me again as a more permanent investment, I’ll have enough to get started wherever else I want to take my life. I’m going to be okay, Mrs. Martin.” She looked unsure and frustrated by his response. He didn’t understand why.

“Do you feel ready to handle this responsibility, this job you speak of, _mentally?_” He lied again. He was sure everything was going to go to shit.

“Yes. Thank you for _uh_-asking.” She sighed, seemingly accepting of this conclusion to their conversation.

“Thank you for being honest, Brendon,” she said sincerely as she scribbled on sticky note, “I wish you good luck on your finals and this job. Here’s a note for your next teacher.” He's _fine_. Everything is _fine_. _Brendon_ is _fine_.

_I'm **fine**_.

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, did you notice any parallels? I'm not being redundant; it's parallelism. I hope you guys can follow the timeline well enough.
> 
> Do you guys really not have any problems with how I write? 'Cause even if it’s imperfect, I can understand that. I enjoy a lot fics like that, that I wouldn't want written any differently. Is that why you didn't really address any problems last time I asked for critiques?
> 
> Also, I tend to love just writing dialogue, so sorry if you don't like that.


	7. And Then Alone Again: Part two (But Not Completely)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Spencer's perspective, in the present tense, in May 2005, in first person. He's the real mvp of this story. If you didn't notice before, this chapter displays it with full force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Therapy that does work. 
> 
> Warnings for strong language, derogatory language and subject matter. It's just kind of disturbingly suggestive. Nothing too extreme though... yet.

\---

“Where the hell is he?” Ryan complains in a monotone voice. We’ve been in the small bare room we call our practice space for half an hour although the agreed upon time was ten minutes ago. Augmenting the silence, the sterile white fluorescents above us wash out the already disgusting muted tones of the walls, chairs, and floor. Allowing my eyes to wander around the room in boredom, it feels distinctly empty without the steady stream of noise Brendon tends to provide. I smile to myself until I remember that lately, he's been quiet. I feel awkward waiting with my lack of options to improve the mood as Ryan and Brent don’t try either. Only obvious to me because he's not talking to me about something abstract—since he doesn’t have anyone else, and he takes advantage of that every oppurtunity he gets—, but he's clearly aggravated. I don’t understand it when we normally only have to wait a few minutes for Brendon.

“He has a life outside of us, you know? He can be late sometimes," I say, feeling the need to defend the kid even though he's actually been consistently late. After all, we're only granted this time because he's paying to rent the place. Ryan's eyes flicking up to me under his eyebrows as if everything I’ve said is despicably incredulous, he lifts his head away from his notes to speak directly facing me. I know the small formality signals the beginning of an argument. 

“Does he though? As far as I know, he's at work, school, or with us. He didn’t use to be late.” I sigh, already tired from the disagreement because it’s more than that; it's indicative of Ryan's obvious hatred for Brendon. To ask silently if he'll be participating in the discussion, I look to Brent who seems uninterested but speaks anyways. 

“No,” he responds to Ryan, “For one, he comes out with me sometimes.” I’m actually surprised that he's with me on taking Brendon's side, but then I remember that _of course_, I really shouldn’t be, _they're friends_.

“Or getting fucked up with Brent,” he includes to show that his point still stands.

“Sometimes literally fucked. I pretty sure he's a fag." I'm shocked to hear that there's clear disgust in his tone, and that perhaps I was right in my initial surprise that Brent _originally_ took Brendon's side. If he knew about mine and Ryan's conflict over Trevor, I don’t think he'd have the audacity to attack anyone's sexuality, but I don’t want to repeat that situation either. However… he is a complete jerk. _Ok, Maybe I will put him in his place; this doesn't even involve Ryan. _

“Woah, off topic! Brent, do you need to such an _asshole_ all time?! He's been nothing but nice to us for the past year, which makes you _even more_ of a really shitty person for crapping on _who he fucking sleeps with_, which is none of your goddamn buisness. _God_, aren’t you his friend?” Making sure to throw back at him clear indignation in _my_ tone of voice, I fucking _yell_ and nearly spit as I force the words out. Normally, I'm a fairly genial person, but it’s _easy_ and _natural_ to fight when contempt is boiling in veins, my heart pumping it through my body and audibly in my ears as I shake with anger.

“Like I said, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have friends,” Ryan interjects the wrath I’m consumed in, continuing to try to prove his point, which is on topic, but still unfairly mean. And _yes_, it does almost seem like he doesn’t have any friends, but maybe he just doesn’t talk about them. _And wait, hey, he can still be late. That's still ok, Ryan._

“Yeah, he’s pretty annoying most of the time. Everyone at school makes fun of him. He's a fucking joke, and people love watching him get pathetically wasted at parties. He gets drunk and lets guys do shit to him, it's actually kinda sad if it wasn’t hilarious. Maybe if he took his stupid ADK-whatever pills he'd actually be someone people would want to hang out with and he'd have friends,” Brent bites back at me now fully on board with shitting all over someone who might just be the kindest person I've ever met, and obviously needs our support right now. I can’t comprehend how they could talk about him like this.

“Wow. Both of you need to be less of absolute pieces of shit.” _I just can’t_. _Wha-I, How?!?_\- I can’t even mentally adress the newfound knowledge that he has some kind of psychological disorder because I'm in too much shock that they could be such repugnant human beings. _What the fuck_. 

“He needs to not waste my time.” Ryan has a one track mind, and will gladly neglect Brent’s immoral behavior in favor of sticking to his argument. 

“He's just late! He doesn’t deserve the way you're treating him!” I groan and slump in my chair, looking up at the industrial lights in the ceiling and wondering how all those bugs got in there.

“Spence, you of all people should know that I don’t care.”

“I can’t believe he looks up to you.” _I’m so done_. Thankfully, I think Ryan can tell that I’m really, actually, seriously offended by the conversation, and he says slightly worried, _as if he does care_,

“Yeah, I don’t understand it. Although, lately, he's been ignoring me.” 

“Huh. Yeah, hasn’t he seemed just a little bit off?” I say, glad for the slight change in tone of conversation. _Concern. Right. That's good_.

“More than a little Spence. He doesn’t really eat, but I think that's because he ran out of some savings he had, so he's prioritizing paying for the most important expenses. He stopped flirting awhile ago too. He also started smoking and drinking, which I never noticed him doing before. I don’t think he sleeps much, and he's just…he's just not happy.”

“He needs our help.” I say matter of factly, especially since I don’t think things are good with his family, and he apparently doesn’t have friends.

“No way. It’s fun watching him get fucked up,” Brent sneers, and I can’t respond. I’m instantly returned my wrathful state. Wanting desperately to calm myself down, I try to ignore the intrusive thoughts of beating the shit out of Brent. We’re writing an album… _no, wait Ryan or Brendon could record his parts_. But what about tour? _We could find someone else_. I want to get rid of him. _Why shouldn’t I just launch onto him right now?_ Just then, as my thoughts drone on about how I should be the better man, shouldn’t stoop to his level, _blah, blah, blah_… we hear footsteps and snap our heads to the door opening. He's here.

“Hey, guys. I’m sorry for running late,” he looks ashamed; it’s the latest he's ever been, fifteen minutes, but still…_he's done so much for us, and he's having a hard time._ Shuffling quickly into the empty chair, he sets a bottle of water next to himself, sits up straight, clears his throat, and looks to Ryan to show him that he's ready. It's the type of thing you'd say 'G_ood boy!'_ to, to a dog, which only conjures unwanted thoughts about how _<strike>Brendon's **totally** Ryan's b</strike>\- _Because my emotions are all over the place, from my anger, overwhelming empathy for Brendon --especially at his obedient patient display towards Ryan which breaks my heart--, and confusion because _did Ryan just smirk to himself??,_ I can’t do anything to react to the situation around me. Even though he's evidently happy with his effort to please, it’s not appreciation since he chastises Brendon,

“So what should you owe me this time? You piece of shit,” he unnecessarily adds on, maybe just for the shock of it. Even if seems to make Ryan sound dumb, I know it probably has some inside meaning between them calculated to elicit a specific response in Brendon. <strike>_Again, I ignore the weird dog training thoughts_</strike>. He probably enjoys making him upset. But to _my_ shock, Brendon doesn’t seemed surprised. Becoming more dysfunctional in my anger, I briefly wonder how much Ryan's verbally assaulted him in private without my knowledge. I feel the room heating up. _Why is he my best friend?_ He looks at Ryan with wide pleading eyes, worried eyebrows pointed upwards, and a frown before he _begs_, of all things,

“Please, Ryan. _Please_ forgive me. And not just for being late. I’m tired of _whatever_ that's going on between us. _I_-I, look, ok, I know I’ve been kinda shitty lately, but it’s just that,” he sighs and takes a deep breath, “I've wanted to say this for a long time,”

“Yeah, get to your fucking point already,” Ryan interrupts.

“I’m sorry, yeah, uh, it’s just that,” he stops himself from going off on a tangent, probably to explain himself, when he sees Ryan roll his eyes. He continues, “It seems as if from the very beginning, which I don’t understand, that you’ve hated me. And it hasn’t mattered how much I’ve tried to make it up for whatever reasons I've deserved that or what I did, you still hate me.”

“That's because you’re still you. You know, we were just having a conversation about you. It was a rather enlightening exploration of some opinions I didn’t know we agreed on,” he laughs, but it’s not exactly happy. 

“I don’t know what more I could possibly do. _I do whatever you tell me to!_”

“Not lately,” Ryan supplies like a manager scolding his workers for falling behind his standards. Just before I think how weird that is, I realize that, Ryan, sort of _is_ his manager. My brain is running a million miles per hour as I go to one extreme idea of defense to the next. They all seem to involve ambulances and me ending up in jail. Obviously, I can’t have that, so I’m just stuck in pain watching Ryan hurt Brendon. Speaking of whom, looks like he's about to cry. I wonder how much worse it is when it’s just the two of them in his apartment. To my relief, and then my dread, Ryan suggests, 

“How about we talk about it later?” Brendon seems dissapointed, but he nods yes. I don’t like the idea of ‘_later_’, when he can get him alone.

“It was silly of me to bring something like that up right now anyways.” As I think about the interactions I’ve seen between them, something clicks in my brain. _Is this about power? Is this a game to him, some sick power trip? Probably, knowing Ryan_. I don’t give a shit about practice or writing anymore. Right now, I just want to know Brendon's mental state and answer some questions I recently acquired.

**A**.Does he really not have any friends?

**B**.Is he really gay?

**C**.Does he really have ADD, or ADHD maybe?

And most importantly, **D**._Is he okay? _

“Hey, B. Why don’t we hear about any of the people you hang out with," I start out with the simple questions as to not scare him off. Brent _has_ to be wrong, but he looks hesitant to answer. Maybe, he’s just startled because _yeah_, I guess I’m coming across as very random. But unanticpated, a strained suspension settles over the room, and I surmise if his reluctance is more than a result my spontanaiety. As time drags on, the surprising quietude goes from awkward to _driving me insane_. About burst at my failure to start a conversation, finally, _finally_, _fucking fiNALLY,_ he curls in on himself looking down and whispers,

“You are the people I hang out with.” _FUCK_. _God, why did he have to say that?!_ That was worse possible answer I could’ve gotten. Now he must think we don’t consider him our friend, and that's not tr- _well_, I suppose we don’t. I did not see that coming. I’ve only known him for a year, but_ I want to fucking cry._ Embarrassment. Shame. Guilt. Something shifts inside me, sensing it emerge from my subconscious but too blurry to recognize yet. I’ve never felt more sad for another person in my life. I should calm down; more than likely, I just feel this way, this amplified, because I'm seeing this in addition to the hatred I witnessed in the previous conversation. 

“So any ways, lets-" _get to business? No fucking way_. My brain automatically fills in. Refusing to witness them interact any further, he doesn’t get to finish as I suddenly cut him off, again not tactfully since I still can’t fully function, I stupidly yell, 

“NO!” It’s directly in Ryan's face, and I know my eyes are wide as the sky. Seizing Brendon's wrist, I pull him out of the room while he awkardly resists a little to grab his bag. For which I'm very grateful, he doesn’t even have time to say ‘_Wait!_’, and nobody has time to react. It’s now that I physically realize exactly how small he is even though I know I’m taller, and _well_, much heavier. In the few seconds that I drag him through the hallways of the building and into the disgusting Nevada southern dryheat, I say nothing. I let go of him. He gets a word in as I catch my breath before I can ask him to drive us the hell out of here, demanding with more sass than he's ever dared,

“Okay, seriously Spencer, _what the ever loving fuck?_” It’s simple, but effective. He's crossing his arms, pursing his lips to a corner, raising an eyebrow --so well I try to remember if I can do that with my face--, and cocking his hip out sideways while leaning his weight into one leg. Because he doesn’t do anger or sass if he's serious, only when he's joking, which is why this is ridiculous coming from him, I almost laugh. As I bite it back, I launch into explanation,

“Look. I wasn’t gonna watch them be assholes to you for the next two hours; the music isn’t worth that,” he audibly scoffs, but I ignore him, “and I want to make sure you’re ok. Look, I know It’s obvious you’re not, so I just want to- look, I just want to talk to you about it.” His mouth drops open and he gasps before exclaming annoyed, 

“Am I really that fucking see-through?! What the hell. My teacher just pulled me aside asking me if I was going to be ok. Today is just not my day.“ After going through a whirlwind twists and turns for the last half an hour, I find it strange the things he's shocked by in comparison.

“That, or I suspect, you must be going through one bitch of a time.” Sensing the true direction of the conversation, he sighs and takes on on an apprehensive countenance. Now that he knows what I want from him, I suggest, “Can you drive us somewhere else?”

“Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t mind getting away just this once…although, Ryan is gonna pissed off when I get home later,” he considers, but ultimately begins walking away from me towards his truck. Thinking of what he’s going to go through later, I almost back out and insist that this was a bad idea. However, in the long run, I realize this is a long due conversation, and I know no one else is going to go to the effort to help him. Besides, I'd be a dumbass if I made choices based on what _Ryan_ wants. I follow him, and we both get in the vehicle in silence. I break it abruptly by asking,

“Are you really gay?” he turns to me with an amused expression, and it’s surprisingly the happiest I’ve seen him in weeks, even if it’s just bewilderment.

“No?! Why wou-_oh_. Was it Brent?”

“Yeah. He also claimed you have ADD.” He grins a mischievous smirk before clarifying to my surprise, because I thought Brent was completely bullshitting,

“Well, I may not be gay, but guys are included in the mix. And, he was close; I have ADHD.”

“Oh my god. I thought he was lying.” Today is a day of never-ending shock. Holy shit. Brendon likes guys and has- _wait, actually that makes perfect sense. _

“No, he's not that type of person.” _Brent's not that type of person?! What the- _He has too much faith in people. Torn between wanting to protect him from the truth, and from the harm his naïveté attracts, I decide to inform him that mine and his ‘_friend_’ likes to gossip about him when he's not in the room.

“Are you kidding?! Do you know the kinds of things they say behind your back?” However, he doesn’t seem fazed, and I conclude he must just be insane.

“Well, ya kno- oh, wait! What about Ryan? Did you think Ryan was lying? He’s literally always slut-shaming me, and _you know why?!?_” In transparency, he's currently more interested in my opinion than Brent and Ryan's unkind words.

“Well, I’ve never actually seen you flirt with him like he claims you do, and I thought you were just too nice deny it. I didn’t think he was lying, I just thought he was an idiot. I don’t trust his judgement of anything people related.” For reasons unknown to me, he doesn’t challenge me further although I know he disagrees. It’s quiet, and I feel a sudden tension radiating off him. _What is he thinking now?_ Rotating the key in the ignition, he begins to exit the parking lot and rhetorically asks,

“Your place?”

“Yeah, let’s get out of here; I’m sweating my ass off.” Causing the passing time to feel spacey, the traffic drones by while I get lost in thought, and he focuses on driving. Sure, there’s a lack of spoken word, but it’s not awkward like the rest of the day. Perhaps it’s because his extraverted contentment expresses my success. As we get to my house, I roll my eyes when he unsurprisingly slips into his well-played role of an overly-grateful modestly cautious guest. It gets on my nerves the way he behaves, as if he should feel guilty for receiving kindness from others. I repeat ‘_you’re plenty welcome_,’ and ‘_stop, it’s fine_,’ but he won’t listen. I think it's partially his personality, but mostly way he was raised. Until I tell him that it’s actually an annoying inconvenience hindering our casual hang out, he doesn’t drop the apologetic persona. After eating a small snack of cereal, we go to my room and anticipate the _feelings_ in the next exchanging of words. Although my room is messy, I’m not embarassed because I know it's nothing more than a normal amount. I wish people could just chill and adapt that mindset more often. Both sitting on my bed, I watch him stare at his lap while his hands pick at themselves cradled by his folded legs. Given his discomfort, I decide to speak first. 

“Are you too busy to hang out with anyone other than us losers?” I don’t beat around the bush, but I still attempt a light hearted tone. Unexpectedly, he doesn’t hesitate to directly answer, first quickly taking a deep breath.

“Yeah, that's mostly true, but it wasn’t always like this. Before I moved out, or got another job, I was starting to make friends at school, but then I was just too busy, and now I guess, nobody likes me, they act like we’ve always been friends but I know they’re fake. I think I’m like the ‘_joke friend_’ with a couple groups at school. I know I get on everyone’s nerves, so it’s fine, really. I shouldn’t expect anything more. It earns me invitations, any ways.” Mentally, I translate everything he said into what must be the reality of the situation, so I can explain to him why his perspective is skewed. 

“No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. You came in later, everyone was already friends, you were too busy to make real ones, and then some assholes got a hold of you. It’s not because of you. You’re great person who lots of people would love to become friends with,” at that, he snorts, “Hey! No, I’m serious. Really! Now, what about any old friends? Like from your old school? Or church maybe? If that was a thing…”

“I didn’t keep in contact with them because, again, I was busy, and then they never called or anything, so I guess….Well, it’s not like I ever really had any close friends anyways, so it’s not a big deal. It’s fine.” Considering that I know from Brent he switched schools as a junior, I know it’s been almost over a year, and that’s too long for me to dispute. _Why would his old friends stop talking to him?_ Maybe he has a point. Both adding to and relieving some confusion on my part, he explains further,

“And why would they talk to me after I left the church?”

“So? Why does that mean they’ll stop being your friends?”

“That’s not how it works.” Sudden realization washes over me, and I exclaim,

“Oh my God! _Were you excommunicated?!?!_”

“_No!_ No. That’s not how it works either. You have get your name officially removed for that. Even then, I don’t know if that’s still a thing. I’ve never seen it. I just mean, it’s kind of awkward, and I know that might seem extreme, but beliefs are taken really seriously, its just how the community is, well of course it is, its what it’s all about, and leaving is worse than never being a member in the first place, so… yeah. And then I just didn’t have the time." Speculating that he’d probably find it offensive, I wisely hold off from calling him a cult survivor. Satisfied enough with the explanation, I move on, maybe too fast,

“What about your family…” _Shit_. He immediately tenses. I hit a sore spot. I should’ve been more cautious. Doing nothing to put me at ease, he's silent. As my eyes dart to my door, I panic, begin strategizing how I’m gonna block him, physically keep him here, how I’m gonna grovel and beg, convince him to stay. I think I’ve fucked it all up, _it’s over, done,_ but he pushes on. He starts talking.

“They think I’m ruining the life they gave me. They did everything right, yet I ended up like this. I should’ve gotten good grades. I should’ve gotten scholarships. I should be going to college. I should have faith. I shouldn’t like guys. I shouldn’t be delivering drugs for my shady landlord. I shouldn’t be seeking pleasure or pain until I stop thinking so I can forget about everything. And that’s the only reason I can put this in words, because I can't stop thinking about it. I shouldn’t have thrown away my life on a whim for this band, and no offense, but I don’t think we’re going anywhere. And I can’t rely on them to survive, to put my life on track, because it won’t be the track they want.” It’s a lot to take in, but I remain quiet, determined to thoroughly process how he sees himself.

“Even if everything you said is an accurate account of your life, it’s not the end. What's that Beatles’ quote? ‘_Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it's not the end.’_?” He laughs. “Right?”

“Yeah. I think Lennon said that. That's too idealistic, at least in application to me.”

“_To you?!_ What? You’re like the most, _well_, at least when I first met you, optimistic person I know,” but he just laughs again; he doesn’t get it. “No, really! I mean it! As long as you don’t give up, as long as you’re trying, you can build your life up. You can achieve things. You can find a job, you save up money, you can figure out what you want in life, and you can make a career off that. And you know what? I think this band _is_ going places, and that this band _is_ the thing you want in life and you’re going to make a career off of it. Just watch. I’m telling you, there's some really shitty music out there, and stuff we’ve been planning, the stuff you and Ryan come up with, is a million times better. We’re gonna be fine. Even if this isn’t it, I know you’re gonna be fine.” Still, he looks doubtful. With a sad slumped posture, tense jaw, and eyes full of apology as if he’s truly sorry that he can’t believe me, I wish I could express so much with no words at all. Although I’m pretty sure I’m an extrovert, but maybe that’s just because I’m always comparing myself to Ryan, he’s _way_ more extroverted than me. _Ha!_ That’s funny. Extroversion to introversion is like saying Brendon to Ryan. _On a scale of Brendon to Ryan, how introverted are you?_ As I focus back to his disbelief, I search for the final nail in the coffin. _How can I assure him he’ll be okay?_ It becomes obvious to me; he won’t go to the waste side because I just won’t allow it.

“_Brendon_,” he waits in even more dread of potential dissapointment, “You can be sure that you’re going to be okay, because I won’t _let_ anything else happen. I’m going to make sure you’re fine. Even if you really can’t rely on your family, you can rely on me.” Shifting from sorry to… _something_ (overwhelmed?), a sheen of liquid forms over his eyes speaking for him where speech normally would. This time, I’m not afraid of the silence. Confident in the evidence I offered, I wait patiently. En fin, he poses one last question, 

“Spencer, would you consider me a friend?” Finding the innocence of such a pure and simple question endearing, I observe his heart on his sleeve, full of hope and desperate worry. Although my emotions concerning him have remained the same, I’ve only become aware of them today. Never, would I have thought my perspective of someone in my life could change so quickly, but I definitively know how I would answer that question now. It fully emerges into my consciousness now, and loses its blurry appearance. As my chest tightens and my eyes almost water from the clear poignant love gripping my soul, I slowly smile and gently ease his dread.

“Yes. You’re one the most amazing, kind, talented people I’ve ever met, and you’ve been nothing but friend to us. I’m glad you’re in my life Brendon, and I can’t wait to start our lives in this band together.” He literally starts crying, but I this time I know it’s from happiness. Emotionally letting go where he's been holding back, I know he needed this. Just as I’m about to look for some napkins, he decides to use my shirt for that purpose instead and pulls our bodies together. The embrace is sudden, but not unwelcome. Just enjoying the comfort, I don’t know how long we remain entangled like that, on my bed, in my room, that afternoon, on that Wednesday, in May 2005. I feel like I’ve suddenly gained a younger brother, a pure _human_ love, and I realize I love this kid. 

_I **love** him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M REPEATING THE NOTES BECAUSE I REALLY WANT TO KNOW.
> 
> Hey, did you notice any parallels? I'm not being redundant; it's parallelism. I hope you guys can follow the timeline well enough.
> 
> Do you guys really not have any problems with how I write? 'Cause even if it’s imperfect, I can understand that. I enjoy a lot fics like that, that I wouldn't want written any differently. Is that why you didn't really address any problems last time I asked for critiques?
> 
> I tend to love just writing dialogue, so sorry if you don't like that.
> 
> Also, SPENCER!


End file.
